


Journey to the Past

by FernDaphnia



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21562405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FernDaphnia/pseuds/FernDaphnia
Summary: “You grew up in Derry, Maine?” It’s a simple question but one that Richie nevertheless has trouble answering.A talkshow appearance and an old photo sends Richie on a journey to find the friends he's forgotten. AU, 5 years before IT Chapter 2.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 225





	1. Mike

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into fanfiction in quite some while. Have this story mapped out and aiming to post a chapter a week. Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated.

“You grew up in Derry, Maine?” It’s a simple question but one that Richie nevertheless has trouble answering. 

It’s his final planned talk show appearance to promote his new tour going on sale. Relatively speaking, the week so far has been a roaring success and he’s only managed to stick his foot in his mouth a few times, which is kind of his brand at this point, and sales definitely haven’t suffered.

This is the first question he’s had trouble answering since, perhaps, _ever_. His hand is suddenly aching around the scar that he’s had for as long as he remembers - though not far back enough to remember how he actually got it. He takes the hand in his other and tries not to let the pain show on his face.

“Yeah, good ol’ Derry,” he responds, hoping that that’s the end of this tangent.

Unfortunately for him, it’s not. “Now, as you know, it’s Hometown Memories Week here on the show and my team have been out and about around the country tracking down information on all my guest’s hometowns. We actually have a photo of you with some of your friends back in Derry,” the host continues, turning to the screen where a photo has appeared. Richie recognises his younger self, coke-bottle glasses and brightly colored Hawaiian shirt being a dead giveaway, but the other teens in the image are strangers to him. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on here?” the host prompts.

_Fuck_ , Richie was really hoping that someone else would do that part.

"I, um-" he’s suddenly very aware of the few hundred people sitting in the live studio audience, waiting expectantly for a funny anecdote or deep insight into his past. He has neither. “Fuck,” he says and for perhaps the first time instantly regrets it - _fuck, you’re not meant to say that on tv are you?_ “Shit, sorry!” He’s really hoping that his trademark brand of running his mouth will work in his favor here.

“Yeah, those are my friends. Those guys!” He laughs awkwardly, wishing that the tv set would cave in around him or that an audience member might have a heart attack, something, anything to bring this interview to an end.

“Tell me about them.”

“Not much to tell, I don’t think we were that close.” Just saying those words feels wrong but at the same time he can’t even pull one name out of his head, so they can’t have been, can they?

The host looks at him like he’s grown another head, something which would still be preferable to his current situation. The host looks down at his cue cards, “well, this is awkward, my notes here say that you called yourselves the Losers Club and even had your own clubhouse!” He pauses as if to allow for Richie to interject, to reveal he’d been joking and, of course he remembers his dear friends. Nothing.

“I’m told that this is Bill Denborough, the acclaimed horror author and that girl grew up to be Beverly Marsh of Rogan Marsh! What are the odds?! Have you kept in contact with either of them?”

Richie’s mouth is so, so dry and he’s grateful that the glass of water he reaches for gives him a moment to think of his response, “Sadly haven’t seen the old gang in a while, Jim,” he tries for a smile but can tell it comes off as more of a grimace. 

“Too famous for the small people, eh?” The host responds and there’s a definite dig in there. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ This is going to be on YouTube. He’s fucked up so badly. He blanks out for the end-of-interview wrap-up and just vaguely nods along at the re-cap of his tour details. He’s off stage the minute the cameras cut, running to the green room bathroom to throw up. 

-

He’s standing in the green room after the rest of show has wrapped, holding the dregs of a complimentary glass of _something_ when he sees a runner talking into a headset as they walk by. 

“Hey, Hey!” He’s very aware of how awkward he must look, chasing after this random employee, especially since the young woman looks positively terrified. He guesses they don’t get accosted by guests much. Especially by guests who’ve just made a fool of themselves on national television.

Richie stops and tries to change his body language to seem calmer and less like a crazed person, even if tonight has made him feel really fucking crazy.

“Hey, sorry, um-“ He hesitates and it just makes him feel more unnerved. He’s Richie fucking Tozier, if there’s one thing he never struggles with it’s talking. “Do you have a copy of that photo? And the names?” 

The woman still looks perturbed by the interaction. He can’t blame her, he needs the photo more than he’s felt like he needed anything in years and his desperation is in sharp contrast to what he’s sure came off as someone who was too good for his hometown and childhood friends now that he’s famous.

Nevertheless, she nods hesitantly and hurries off to get him a copy. When she returns ten minutes later, it’s with an ok-quality print out on normal printer paper. He stares at the faces, each vaguely familiar but not enough to attach a name to. The assistant gently turns the photo over as he doesn’t release his grip to show him the other side with six names written on it and one phone number. “Our researcher got this from Mike Hanlon, that’s his number. He’s a local historian at the Derry library.”

Richie takes a moment. This feels huge but he’s still not exactly sure why or even who any of the people in the photograph are. “Thanks, thank you.” 

“You’re welcome Mr Tozier.” She gives him a polite smile, a slight nod and goes back to her duties.

Richie looks again at the reverse of the photo, reading the names on the back. Bill Denbrough, Mike Hanson, Stanley Uris, Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom and Eddie Kaspbrak. Who the hell are these people and why can’t he remember anything about them?

-

The obvious first step, Richie thinks, is to call Mike Hanlon. He’s back in his hotel room, staring at the photo waiting for some sudden recognisation of which one of these faces of his presumed childhood friends is Mike. No matter how hard he concentrates, he’s no closer to figuring it out. It’s obviously one of the guys, but beyond that he’s stumped. 

He pulls out his cell and searches “Mike Hanlon Derry Maine” expecting to find an official library website. Nothing. Part of him notes that this is strange, that in this day and age it’s odd that there wouldn’t be one page, or even a mention of a Mike Hanlon in the local press. In fact, as he looks further, there doesn’t seem to be a local paper. _Weird._

After making no progress - _how the fuck did the researcher track Mike down_ he wonders idly - all that’s left to do is dial the number on the back of the photo.

He’s nervous - something he’s not used to feeling - as he types the number in. He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him on this phone call but he somehow knows that not all of it is good.

The phone rings, once, twice and then is picked up, “Hello?”

“Hey? Is this Mike Hanlon?” he asks.

There’s a pause. “Richie? Richie Tozier?”

Richie’s momentarily stunned. Of all the scenarios he’d considered as he was driven back to his hotel, Mike expecting him to call wasn’t one of them.

“Uh, yeah.” Another pause. “Who are you?”

There’s a wry laugh on the other end. “I didn’t think I’d have to do this for another few years. We’re friends...we were friends. Us, Bill, Eddie, Stan, Beverly and Ben. The Loser’s Club.”

“Then why don’t I remember you?” An obvious question but one Richie has to ask.

The response is cautious, “You’re not going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

“When people leave Derry, something strange happens.” Mike starts. “It’s not immediate. They keep in touch, for a while, but then the calls become less frequent and after a few months you never hear from them again.”

It’s ridiculous. Objectively Richie knows that. But he also knows that he has forgotten, has lost years of his life, that it’s not normal to have no memories before you’re at college.

“The others?” He knows the answer before it comes.

“...don’t remember either. At least, as far as I know.”

Richie runs a hand through his curls. “Christ. That’s a fucking trip.” A sound of agreement is his response.

“Can you help me remember?” His gut instinct is still screaming out that this is not a good idea. He knows intuitively that he should hang up, forget the damn photo and go back to his life.

But he’s not sure what there is to go back to. His career’s doing fine, he knows that, but he’s not proud of it. His writers are fucking awful and he’s got this far by appealing to the masses, not through any particular skill on his part.

He doesn’t have any particularly close friends, let alone anyone special, in his life and just the idea that somewhere out there Richie has not one, but six friends that he somehow forgot about is too tempting to overlook.

“I’ve not tried it before but...I think so.” Mike replies and that’s good enough for Richie. They arrange to call on Skype the next day - Richie’s a little surprised that Mike even has Skype, or the internet, in Derry from what he’s seen so far - and Mike promises to find some more photos to show him. 

That night he dreams of sewers and a boy with a broken arm.


	2. Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie finds out more about the Losers from Mike and runs into a not-so familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! Hope you all enjoy it and, as always, comments and feedback are more than welcome.

A ringing sound emanates from Richie's laptop. He leans across the hotel bed where he’s aimlessly slouched against the pillows watching tv, to grab the remote control, press mute and answer the call.

The screen comes to life and despite only knowing that Mike’s existed for less than a day, Richie is genuinely happy to see him, to see a friend. A friend who is sitting in front of conspiracist’s dream.

“You have a board. And twine.” Richie observes, intentionally not commenting on the blown up photos clearly printed off the internet or the endless webs connecting the different images together. He doesn't even recognise the photo of himself that's up there, it looks like a screen grab from one of his shows.

“Hey Mike, when was the last time you left Derry?” he asks cautiously, then adds “or your apartment?”

Mike stops what he was doing, “too much?”

“Yeah, slightly.” Richie genuinely wonders if Mike has ever left Derry. He knows how lonely he’s been but he at least got to forget and somewhat live his life. What must it have been like for Mike to see them leave one by one until no-one but him was left?

“Why’d you stay?” he asks. “I don’t remember much but it doesn’t seem like Derry’s going to be featured in any ‘Top 10 places to live’ lists anytime soon.”

Mike gives a resigned chuckle, “Someone had to, to be ready. It comes back every 27 years.”

“Fuck, to be ready for what?” Richie replies then his brain catches up with the second part of what Mike said. “Wait, how long has it been?”

“We all made a promise: when it comes back, we come back. To stop it. It’s been 22 years.”

The realisation that over 20 years of his life has been a lie hits him like a train. He doesn’t know when exactly he forgot but it’s already obvious that the entirety of his adult life he’s been part of some region-specific mass amnesia outbreak and he struggles to wrap his head around how extra fucked up his life has become in the space of a day.

“What do we need to stop, Mike?”

Mike looks at him, really looks at him (as much as he can through a video call) and imperceptibly shakes his head, “I didn’t think I’d have to do this so soon. It’s not the right time to tell you.”

“Fuck man, you know I’m just going to come up with crazier and crazier ideas of what’s going on.” Because, _really_ , what’s the worst that could be waiting for them in small-town Maine? 

“Whatever you come up with, it will still be more logical than what’s happening in Derry,” Mike says gravely and Richie is already getting tired of this all-knowing mystic bullshit.

He changes tack, “can you show me who’s who?”

Mike points out each of the Losers in the few childhood photos he has - the one that had started all of this and a number of strips of photos where all seven of them had crammed into a tiny booth. There’s a few with just some of them, each looking that little bit older as their numbers had apparently dropped down to five.

There’s a couple of photos of them as adults too. Beverley standing on a walkway at the end of a fashion show and a photo of Bill that he can only assume is from the inside of a dust jacket on one of his books.

Richie takes his time looking at each one, willing himself to dig something out of the recesses of his memories but there’s nothing concrete other than a vague familiarity that comes from the photo he already had. He tries not to dwell on it, if he found Mike this easily he maybe some greater force working to bring them back together.

“We need to find them, Mike,” he says, feeling more purpose than he has for the past twenty years.

-

When he suggests they start by finding Eddie, Mike immediately brightens, amused by some joke that Richie hasn’t been let in on.

“I know I’m fucking hilarious but I’m clearly missing something here,” he says. “Oh shit! Is Eddie the thing we’ve got to stop?” Mike is definitely beginning to crack in response.

“Were we sworn enemies? Rivals for Beverley’s affections?” Something about that makes Mike full-on choke on the laughter he’d been trying to suppress. 

An uneasiness is beginning to coil in the pit of Richie’s stomach at the idea that Mike may somehow know. 

“So that’s a ‘no’ on that. Look, Mike, if we’re going to do this I need you to be honest with me cause I have a feeling that I’ve only barely scraped the tip of this fucked-up iceberg,” Richie says.

Mike give him a kind smile but Richie’s feeling more nauseous by the second. _Too close, too close, too close._ “You and Eddie were always close. We all were, but you and Eddie were inseparable. It just seemed obvious that you’d try and track him down first, memories or not.”

Richie stares at his screen for a moment, mind running a hundred miles a minute. Did they all know? Was he out when he was younger? It’d be a cruel sense of irony if so, not only loosing his memories but being shoved back into the closet for decades to come. 

A brief memory comes to him, _I know your secret, your dirty little secret_ and a...clown? _The fuck?!_

While there’s no way that is an actual memory, he wonders if it’s a memory of a dream instead, it’s enough to reassure him that he was as conflicted about revealing his sexuality back then as he was now. Even if Mike seems to have an inclination.

“Rightio,” he says, pulling himself back to the present. “So what do we know about the rest of the gang?”

Mike confirms what google had told him, Ben, Beverley and Bill are all wildly successful in their fields but spread across the country. Eddie went to college in New York and the most recent thing Mike’s found has him working for a financial company in the city. Stanley’s in Atlanta and working as an accountant.

Mike’s trying to track down Bill, whose most recent tweets show he’s on location in Europe for a made-for-tv adaptation of one of his lesser-known works. They agree that Richie’ll start with Eddie and Ben, since they’re both in New York. Mike even has photos of where they each work, something that Richie doesn’t want to question too much. Much like he’s doing his best not to acknowledge the craziness of the board on which they’re stuck.

Now all he has to do is cancel his return flight to Los Angeles for tomorrow.

-

It’s not hard to convince his management to allow him to stay and do a few small shows in New York City. They’ve been trying to get him to make the move for years with little success, so they don’t ask too many questions upon his temporary change in opinion. If anything, they’re happy to do some audience testing after how hard he bombed his interview last night. 

They arrange for him to do a series of three surprise sets, billing them as a special event for fans to gauge his support post what twitter is theorising was a drug-related meltdown.

He spends the day before his first show holed up in a window seat in Starbucks opposite the front entrance to Warner and Partners Financial Solutions, watching every single person who enters and leaves the building. He doesn’t know why, but he has no doubt that he’ll recognise Eddie on sight, even though he didn’t know who he was two days ago.

He should be practicing his set for that evening - he gives the script a few cursory glances on his phone but spends most of his time typing variations of the same five names into google to see what else he can find.

After four hours, and five cups of coffee, there’s been no one he even thinks could be Eddie. With one last reluctant look out the window, he packs up his things, knowing that he has to get through the next few gigs if he wants to keep his management on side and stay in the city.

-

His last minute shows are in a small club somewhere in Brooklyn. It’s a far more intimate space than anywhere he’s played in years, but he figures it fits well with the ‘secret fan event’ angle that his management is pushing.

It’s still packed though and as he walks out he’s greeted with enthusiasm by the waiting crowd.

“So as many of you know I was outed as an asshole on national television this week.” Warm laughter erupts from the audience. “It was great to find out that I have long-term amnesia in front of 2 million people - do you know how many free passes I’ve got now?”

“It turns out I didn’t even remember that I grew up in Derry. How fucked up is that? It’s almost worthy of a Bill Denborough novel!” There’s a murmur of laughter from the audience, a literary joke perhaps wasn’t the best choice for this crowd.

He moves onto his usual shtick, sharing stories of his fictional ex-girlfriends and the debauchery he’s left in his wake. The crowd eats it up and he walks off the stage to a cacophony of cheering. His management’s reassured and even talks about extending these ‘surprise’ shows to try out some new material to see how it lands with his target demographic. They’re thrilled with how the night went so why isn’t he?

-

He's attempting to sneak out unnoticed through the back door when he hears a voice say his name.

“Richie?”

Richie has no issue with being approached by very handsome men. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve the eye candy in front of him, but it must’ve been good.

“Sorry, I don’t do selfies.” He moves to walk past the man however, eager to get away from the discontent that’s lingering from the show.

“It’s Ben. Ben Hanscom?” The man says, sounding almost unsure of his own name. Richie’s even more doubtful, _wasn’t Ben the fat kid_?

He takes his phone out of his pocket to look at the home screen, now set to the group photo. He finds the kid that he thinks is Ben, although he’s beginning to wonder if he’s got him and one of the others mixed up.

Ben sees him looking at his screen in confusion and leans over to point himself out, “that’s me.”

Richie’s not convinced, “are you sure? Got to be honest, weighing up the probabilities and crazed fan is still winning out.”

Ben, or person-pretending-to-be-Ben, laughs and pulls out his wallet, showing Richie his driver’s license with ‘Ben Hanscom’ clearly printed besides his photo as proof.

“Ben! Sorry, dude, can’t blame me for that one. What happened to you?” He asks incredulously then pauses, brow furrowed, “And why the fuck didn’t it happen to me?”

Ben bashfully looks at his feet and brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck, “Yeah, I guess I have changed a bit.”

“A bit?! Fuck, Ben, look at you! You got hot!” Ben is rapidly turning a solid red and Richie decides to take pity on him. “How’d you find me?”

“I saw you on tv the other night. I didn’t remember anything either but I recognised myself when they showed that photo. I still can’t remember much else but that’s not normal right? To not remember any of your childhood? To not remember your friends?” Ben says.

“Beats me, Ben Handsome!” Richie stops to laugh at his own joke, “sorry, sorry, I’ll get it out of my system eventually.” Ben knows with certainty that he won’t.

“Mike says it has something to do with leaving Derry, because that fucking makes sense. He never left so he remembers,” Richie continues, keeping it to the cliff notes version so as to not scare Ben off with any of the mystic mumbo jumbo Mike's only hinted at but that he’s nevertheless starting to believe might be real. And he’s not even going to acknowledge the clown he imagined - _remembered_ \- earlier that day. “Fuck! We have to call Mike!”

Ben brightens up at this, “you’ve already found Mike?”

Richie looks at him confusedly, before his brain catches up and he realises Ben knows next to nothing about what’s happening and what’s happened so far.

“Mike remembers everything. Long story. Get him to explain because I have no fucking clue what’s going on either. I didn’t remember Derry existed for most of yesterday.”

They agree to go back to Richie’s to call Mike and spend most of the walk catching each other up on their lives. Ben’s doing well for himself, something Richie’s excessive googling earlier in the coffee shop had easily revealed, but he seems as lonely as Richie and as lacking in purpose.

Richie wonders idly as they walk whether this is part of the curse, or whatever the fuck it is, affecting them all. Not only losing their memories, but being lost. _The Lost Boys_ , he thinks slightly hysterically. He’s certainly been accused of being acting like a child enough times.

He texts Mike as they begin the descent into the subway. _1 down, 4 to go! You better be ready for a call in an hour._

-

He has a brief moment of panic that they’ll get caught by the paparazzi entering his hotel - there’s been a few intermittently lurking outside his hotel, waiting for him to trash the place, attack someone or whatever the next chapter of his mostly-fictional breakdown is. The idea of anyone thinking Richie is remotely in Ben’s league is laughable to him, _and anyone with eyes_ he thinks, so at least he doesn’t have to worry about getting outed tonight. Especially over something entirely platonic.

“We could meet up with Mike in person? Go to Derry or fly him out to New York?” Ben suggests in the elevator up.

“Mike can’t leave Derry and risk forgetting and I don’t know about you but you could not pay me to go back to that shit hole,” Richie replies without thinking.

“You remember Derry?” Ben asks. Richie thinks about it and no, he really doesn’t but at the same time somehow just knows that it’s true. He’s in no hurry to go back.

“No, but Google search results don’t lie. Fuckton of missing and murdered kids, hate crimes, you name it,” he hears himself explain but knows there’s more to it and fuck, if murdered kids isn’t the worst of it he’s screwed.

“Shit,” is Ben’s reply and Richie thinks it sums it all up pretty well. The shit they somehow escaped in Derry, whatever the fuck that might be; how shit it’s been to have spent most of his adult life alone, his friends forgotten; and the shit reality he’s rapidly finding himself in, knowing Mike hasn’t yet told him the full truth but the insistent fear in his gut telling him enough.

He doesn’t share any of that with Ben though. “I’m down the hall,” he says instead, preparing to lead Ben down the rabbit hole.

-

“Do you remember anything, Ben?” Mike asks through the screen. Richie feels slightly like a test subject that Mike is collecting data on.

“No. Nothing except-“ Ben trails off and pulls his wallet out again, retrieving a well worn, folded-up bit of paper. “This,” he finishes.

He gently unfolds the paper to reveal a lone signature which Richie can just make out to be ‘Beverly’.

“I’ve had this for years,” he holds it up proudly to the camera to show Mike, “I’ve never been able to remember who she was, but I knew she was important.”

Richie’s staring wide eyed and raised eyebrows besides Ben and mouths “yikes!” to Mike who surprises a smile but otherwise ignores him, an action which sparks a welcome familiarity within Richie.

“You remembered any more, Rich?” Mike deflects.

Richie shakes his head, “Nothing concrete. Dreamt I was in a sewer system last night but haven’t consulted the dream journal for whatever the fuck that’s meant to mean.”

Mike’s looking at him in a way that Richie is rapidly realising means something, part crazed and part hopeful. “Jesus, Mike! We were in a fucking sewer?”

Ben’s looking back and forth between the two looking completely lost. Richie wouldn’t blame him if he bolted, every fibre of his body is telling him to.

“Kids were missing and Bill tracked them to the sewer system,” Mike is evidently choosing his response very carefully.

“How old were we here?” Ben asks, trying to make some sense of the situation.

“Twelve, thirteen?” Mike responds.

Richie looks to the ceiling and tries not to point out that that’s not a fucking reasonable explanation anywhere outside of Derry, Maine - he fears Mike is too institutionalised at this point to realise that. Instead he asks, “and the kid with the broken arm?”

“That was Eddie,” Mike replies. “This is good, really good. I didn’t expect you to remember so quickly!”

“That’s great, Mike,” Richie says, nodding almost mechanically with a slightly crazed, fake smile of his own.

“Oh, shoot! Would you look at the time. Ben’s got to run off home before midnight or he turns into a very muscular pumpkin. Night!” he presses the red hang-up button before Mike has a chance to fully respond, “That’s not how Cinderella worked-.”

The minute the screen goes down he turns to Ben, “I don’t remember shit.”


	3. Beverly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New York Fashion Week brings another one of the Losers to town and Richie's persistence finally pays off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next Losers! Apologies for the delay in posting this, have been fighting a migraine and haven't been able to get on my laptop as much as I would like. It's about double the length though to make up for it.
> 
> Trigger warning for abuse as Tom's in this chapter and there's a brief mention of Alvin. It's nothing graphic but there is an abusive outburst from Tom.

By the end of the first week most of the baristas have his order memorised and greet him with more familiarity than ninety per cent of people in his life back in LA. He sits at the same table almost every day, and glares at anyone who dare occupy his space on the rare occasions he’s not there first. And he spends most of each visit staring at the same doorway across the street, waiting for a familiar face that he never sees.

When that doesn’t work, he tries to find any justification for an individual needing to hire a risk analyst. Unfortunately, when that individual is a moderately-successful stand up with no financial portfolio he’s somewhere below zero per cent on the viability scale.

He checks in with Mike again in case there’s any other routes he might be missing but comes up empty. They agree to try and focus on Beverly and Bill for now, their fame hopefully making them easier to track down while Richie simultaneously plans a temporary relocation to the East Coast since it seems to be where the majority of the Losers are based.

-

He meets Ben at the weekend, Ben free from his work and Richie realising the futility of sitting in a coffee shop on Wall Street when none of the offices are open. They’ve kept in touch by phone, and one video call with Mike, but it’s good to finally see him in the flesh again, a solid reminder that this is real.

The moment Ben sits down, he’s sliding a copy of AM New York across the table to Richie who stares at it in confusion. “It’s New York Fashion Week!” Ben says by way of explanation.

“Didn’t take you for a fashion nerd, Benny boy,” Richie sips at his coffee, looking at Ben over the top of the mug.

Ben rolls his eyes, “Rogan Marsh has a show, dumbass.”

That finally makes Richie take notice. “Oh, fuck! Bev’ll be in town?” The nickname is out of his mouth before he even fully processes what he’s saying. He has no clue why he said it but it feels right.

“Bev’ll be in town,” Ben confirms with a grin.

Richie already has the address of the New York creative offices for Rogan Marsh but had discounted going there knowing that Beverly was based out of Chicago, planning instead to swing by during his Chicago tour dates. Now it seems worth a shot.

“There’s something else,” Ben says. “It’s crazy, but I swear I remembered Bev only…her hair was on fire. Her hair was fire. That wasn’t real, right?”

“I honestly don’t know dude. I get flashes of things, like that Eddie kid with his cast, which Mike says was real, but then I see this fucking clown and I swear that’s real too. Derry must’ve been the fucking worst.” He’s still not worked up the nerve to mention the clown to Mike and his own research hasn’t dug anything up, no John Wayne Gacy character stealing away the children of Derry. Well, no-one that was caught, anyway.

It’s reassuring to know he’s not the only one seeing these things though. The memories have been coming with more frequency since he was reunited with Ben, something that he’s trying not to question too much.

As they leave the cafe, a thought occurs to Richie, “Hey, Ben, you’ve got to have some financial assets, right? What with being the CEO of a big architectural firm and all that.”

Ben hesitantly responds with a “yes?”

“Enough to have a consultation with a risk analyst?”

Ben catches on to where Richie’s going with this, “think we can get Eddie?”

Richie’s grinning, why the fuck hadn’t he thought of this sooner? “No fucking clue!”

As he’s already planning a visit to Rogan Marsh on Monday, and also knows fuck-all about financial investments, Ben is tasked with arranging the meeting with Eddie.

-

Beverly’s surprisingly easy to track down. Despite being the owner of a small but upcoming fashion house, he got her New York office address after two minutes on google.

It’s an old brownstone in the Lower East Side. There’s a company logo over the door but nothing else to draw attention to the building. He presses the buzzer and waits for an answer.

“Um, hi. Richie Tozier. I’m here to see Beverly Marsh?”

“Do you have an appointment sir?” The crackly voice comes out of the speaker.

“No.” Fuck, he hadn’t even thought about ringing ahead. He’d been so happy just to find one of them. “We’re friends, we were friends. I think.” _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ He’s making such a fucking mess of this already. “Look, can you just tell her I’m here?”

“Just a moment sir.”

Sure that that’s the last he’ll hear, he pounds his fist against the door in frustration. This is so not his area of expertise and he considers calling Mike, surely he had a plan for how to track them all down when he eventually needed to, or Ben who could probably charm them into letting him in. If he can’t even get Beverly to talk to him, when he knows where she is and is so close, what hope does he have for the rest?

The door clicking brings him out of his thoughts. There’s no one there, but the door’s now open so the cops presumably haven’t been called on him. Yet.

He pushes it open and climbs the stairs, finding another door to a reception area on the top at the left. He walks in expecting anything other than a woman that is so obviously Beverley, even if he hadn’t seen a recent photo, standing in the empty room waiting for him.

“Richie?”

A woman that apparently knows who he is.

“Molly Ringwald! How’d you know who I was?”

“I recognized you,” Beverly replied, “and I have good staff who don’t just let anyone into my office without checking who they are first.”

Richie nods along, feigning serious consideration of the idea that he had been somehow vetted to get into the building. Or, more likely, that the receptionist or Bev saw his disastrous late-night appearance and were expecting him to show up sooner or later. “Very wise, very wise indeed.”

He breaks then, finally closing the distance to pull her into a hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Rich,” she hugs him back tightly.

“Who’s this Bevvy?” The voice instantly cuts through the room and Richie’s immediately on edge, not having heard anyone else come in.

Bev clearly knows who this is though, and whoever it is she apparently feels the need to explain who he is, pulling away from him quickly, “this is Richie, he’s an old friend from Derry.”

She turns to Richie with a wary look, “This is Tom, my husband.”

Richie awkwardly puts a hand out to shake but he’s getting very bad vibes about this guy just from how Bev is reacting to his presence, instantly withdrawing into herself in a way that he knows is not normal for her, is not the vibrant girl he’s beginning to remember.

He’s momentarily grateful that he told Ben not to come. If this guy’s insecure enough to be threatened by him he doesn’t want to think how he’d react to the walking GQ cover that is now Ben Hanscom.

Tom throws an arm around Beverly’s shoulders and Richie notes how she tenses up further, “good to meet you, Richard, what brings you to Rogan Marsh?” The Rogan part of the name is stressed, and Richie’s in no doubt about who decided the order of their names when the company was founded.

He attempts his most charming smile, the one he uses when dealing with the biggest assholes in Hollywood, and attempts to diffuse the situation, “Oh, you know, playing a few gigs in the city and thought I’d track down some old friends.”

“We went to school together, there was a whole group of us,” Beverly adds, attempting to placate Tom.

It doesn’t work. Tom gives a tight smile but the anger and suspicion is clear in his eyes and Richie really doesn’t like this guy. “Bevvy’s never mentioned you? I wonder why that is?”

“We all lost touch, you know how it is,” Richie replies.

Tom doesn’t respond immediately, just silently appraises Richie as part of whatever one-sided pissing competition they’re in.

“You should come to our place for dinner tonight, Beverly’s cooking, right Bevvy?” he eventually says.

Beverly’s eyes go wide but she gives a hesitant sound of affirmation, “you should join us, Rich.”

Richie immediately knows he does not want to do that, does not want to continue to be a part of whatever fucked up situation Tom Rogan has brought with him, but doesn’t want to leave Beverly alone with this either so finds himself agreeing to the invitation.

“Great, I’ll get the girl at reception to show you out. See you later, Rich,” his name is said with such disdain that Richie pauses for a second to replay the last few minutes in his head in an attempt to work out what the hell just happened but he has nothing. Bev shoots him an apologetic look as she is physically guided from the room and in no time at all he finds himself standing back out on the street, the door shut firmly in his face.

-

Richie texts Ben on his way to dinner with an address and an only-slightly joking warning that Tom Rogan should be the main suspect if anything happens to him in the next few hours.

The door is answered by Beverly who seems genuinely happy to see him, hugging him again to whisper, “you didn’t have to come” as she leads him into their building.

The meal goes smoother than he expects but the tension is ever-present, especially with Tom going out of his way to touch Beverly at every opportunity to stake ownership. He’s mostly concerned for Beverly, something clearly very wrong with their relationship and Tom’s behaviour.

He tries to make an exit after the food but Tom invites, well, demands, that he stays for drinks. It’s not until Tom grabs Beverly’s wrist as she’s pouring his drink that the foreboding dread that has hung over the day finally has its payoff.

“How long have you been fucking this one, Bevvy?”

He sees Beverly freeze in place and feels himself tense up, not surprised but still shocked at Tom’s actions, Beverly’s terror clear but the situation so foreign that he doesn’t know what to do to make Tom stop.

“I’m not- we’re not-” Beverly attempts to say while trying to free her arm from his grip.

“Why are you lying to me?” Tom’s voice is growing in volume as his anger also grows. Richie eyes his surroundings looking for anything that could be used as a weapon if needed, at least for long enough to get himself and Beverly out the door.

“I’m not! Richie’s an old friend, I told you, I hadn’t seen him in over twenty years until this afternoon!” Beverly pleads, keeping her voice calm from years of practice of dealing with Tom’s outbursts.

Richie stands up, taking with him the heavy-looking ornament from the table beside him, and the sound and movement is enough to temporarily break whatever fog of anger Tom is under and he releases Beverly’s arm.

They stare at each other for a few moments, Beverly taking a few cautionary steps to put some distance between herself and Tom when she says “I think you should go, Rich”.

His immediate instinct is to not leave her to deal with this alone but as if she sense that she murmurs “I’ll be ok” as she walks him to the door, rubbing the redness around her wrist as they go.

He hesitates on the stoop outside, “Are you sure?” When she nods, albeit with a glance back to the room that Tom is waiting in, he adds, voice low “let me know you’re safe, call, email, whatever, but I’m not happy leaving you with that asshole.”

She gives another small nod and quickly shuts the door, leaving Richie outside.

-

Richie stands outside in the rain and wonders if he should call the cops. He knows Bev said she’d be fine, but the situation is so achingly familiar that he knows it for what it is - abuse - immediately. He searches for a reference point and a memory of standing guard outside an apartment block, serving as look out so that Bev’s dad didn’t catch her home alone with the other boys as they helped her clean the blood-covered bathroom. Shit. Like a lot of the flashes he’s had so far, it doesn’t make much sense but it’s enough for him to remember what Bev’s father was like and cements his worry for what is happening on the other side of the locked door.

The voices are rising steadily, already loud to begin with and when the crashing sounds of heavy objects follows, Richie’s dialing 911 when the front door swings open with a bang, Beverly hurrying through it with a bag slung over her shoulder. “We need to go,” she says with an urgency that Richie doesn’t question as he can clearly see the fresh cut on her cheek, even in the dim streetlights.

She’s walking hurriedly down the street and Richie speeds up to keep pace, sticking a hand out for a passing cab with its light on. He doesn’t know where Beverly was going but he wants to get them both far away from Tom as quickly as he possibly can, and even in New York a car is going to get them there a lot quicker than their own feet.

He gives the driver the address of his hotel, the only address he knows in the city and hopes that it’s a safe enough place to get their bearings. Once Beverly’s secure in the room - he’s made her promise to bolt and lock the door behind him, something that she needs little encouragement to do - he goes to find an ice machine, empty cup in hand. He finds one beside some elevators and fills the cup, idly wondering how much is needed to reduce swelling on a facial wound. _Eddie would know_ , answers a voice in his head, as he remembers Eddie patching up Ben in an alleyway. He has no idea why Ben needed first aid and once again wonders what the hell was going on when they were kids. He resolves to ask Ben if he remembers what happened the next time he sees him.

He returns to his suite, and after ensuring the door was once again locked shut, wraps some of the ice in a towel and hands it to Beverly who is lying on her back on the sofa.

Immediate issues addressed, Richie heads straight to the minibar because fuck it, he needs something to drink. He’s rummaging around in the fridge when Beverley finally asks, “How much do you remember?”

More, he realises. Not enough to be able to explain any aspect of what the hell is going on, but enough that he can no longer deny that he’s getting his memories back. Mike will have a field day when he finds out.

“Shit! Mike! I need to update him!” Richie moves to retrieve his laptop from him bed where it’s still plugged from googling Rogan & Marsh’s studio address what feels like days ago. He goes to settle down beside it, wanting to give Beverly as much space as he can while they’re occupying the same room, but Beverly spots what he’s doing, “Mike?” she questions.

“Mike Hanlon, do you remember him?”

“Mike Hanlon,” she repeats, sounding the name out. “I think so? It’s fuzzy, but I think I’m beginning to.” She swings her legs round as she sits up and gestures to Richie to sit beside her for the call.

The skype call rings for longer than usual until eventually Mike appears onscreen. Or, at least, a vague outline of a person in pitch darkness who Richie assumes in Mike. “Eh, new aesthetic you got there, Mike?”

“It’s 1am Richie.” Richie looks up to the time in the corner of his screen and oh right, it is.

“Shit, sorry! But it’s worth it, I swear!”

He turns his screen slightly but Bev leans in before he can get them both in screen, “Hi Mike!”

He lets Bev catch up with Mike for a short time, dropping Ben a quick text to briefly update him and let him know that he’ll update him in full during normal waking hours, once he works out when those are.

When they’re finally ready to try and get some sleep, Richie offers to take the couch and let Beverly have the bed, conscious that she needs the rest a lot more than he does after everything she’s been through today (and presumably a lot longer).

“It’s fine, we can share, right?” she responds, eyebrows raised in confusion at Richie's hesitance. “And I know you don’t think about me that way,” she adds with a grateful smile. _What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_

-

They’re lying in bed and, Richie has to be honest, it feels like a sleepover.

“You got anyone in your life, Rich? Any dashing Hollywood stars sweep you off your feet?” Beverley asks, stifling a yawn as she does.

He tenses and she can obviously feel it as she pulls back, tensing slightly as well. “How did you-?” Richie asks, the they-all-know mantra starting up loud and clear in his head again.

“Oh! I uh- I have dreams about you, all of the Losers, I think. I just didn’t know who you were, or why I kept seeing you. Or why we all….” she trails off, eyes suddenly haunted.

Richie looks at her in question but whatever is troubling her she quickly shakes off. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says and leans forward to engulf him in a hug, tucking into his side as she does so. That’s the last thing either of them say that evening.

For the first time, Richie doesn’t face abuse or insults in response to the revelation. He doesn’t think he knows how to respond to someone not having a problem with his sexuality, it’s that foreign a reaction. He’s not even comfortable with himself, so expecting anyone else to be always seemed less plausible that the damn clown. But Beverly hasn’t run away, hasn’t rejected him, has initiated contact and seems genuinely happy to be with him. He tries to process it all in his head but doesn’t get very far, staring at the ceiling and willing sleep to come soon.

-

Richie feels as though he’s just fallen asleep, dreaming he’s standing at the top of a cliff, ready to jump into the water below. He takes a running leap and is suddenly in free-fall, jolting upright in his bed as the knocking on his door startles him awake. He tries to get his bearings, shouting a “fuck off!” to whoever woke him up.

He hears movement from across the room - Beverly, who was clearly already up, moving away from the door and frantically looking for something to defend herself with - and he’s instantly alert, scrambling out of the bed and bringing one of the bedside lamps with him as it’s the heaviest thing within reach.

“Richie?” A voice from the other side calls through and oh _thank fuck_

it’s just Ben. He tells Beverly as much and breaths an audible sigh of relief as he unlatches and unlocks the door.

“Give a guy a heads up next time,” he says to Ben as he holds the door open to let him past then promptly locks it behind him.

Ben looks at the lamp that Richie’s still clutching then across to Beverly who’s brandishing a coat hanger, worry clear on his face, “Bev?” Then to both of them, “Are you ok?”

“Peachy,” Richie replies, willing his pulse rate to return to normal.

Beverly’s across the room in seconds, engulfing Ben in a warm hug, “It’s good to see you, new kid.”

“It’s good to see you too, Bev,” he pulls back to look at her at arms length and finally notices that she’s wearing an oversized shirt, Richie’s shirt. He looks in askance between the two.

“I crashed here last night,” Bev clarifies. “I- I left my husband”

Ben looks again to the lamp, and the hanger, and it clicks, “You thought I was him?”

Bev nods as Richie places the lamp back on a flat surface, “it didn’t exactly end well.”

It may not have been Tom this time but Richie is suddenly all too aware that it could’ve been. All it would take is one tweet, one article and Tom would know where they were staying. He resolves to speak to Bev about it sooner rather than later.

-

Bev doesn’t want to cancel the show in two days and no amount of concern for her personal safety from Richie or Ben will sway her. Richie had forgotten just how strong Beverly was. He sees the young woman who still fought whatever the fuck that thing was in the sewers of Derry while being trapped alone at home with her abusive father, and sees the same strength and determination as Beverly ensures the show her staff have been working on for months can go ahead without a hitch, with little thought for the risk she may personally be in. He is honestly in awe, and once again questions how the hell he could have forgotten these amazing people.

And it’s not just Bev. Ben is one of the kindest and most earnest people he’s ever met - he doesn’t think he’s said a bad word about anybody in the few week they’ve been together. Then there’s Mike, Mike who stayed in a place Richie is rapidly coming to believe to be Hell on Earth, staying behind to ensure an oath which no one else remembered would still be fulfilled.

Richie can’t think of the last time he hung out with one friend, let alone two. He’s used to schmoozing, being in large crowds and charming anyone who could help him land his next special, but it’s always in self-interest. Everyone’s out for themselves and you’re only as valuable as the money you can bring, but everyone’s operating on that basis so it somehow seems acceptable. Normal, even.

But this, spending time with Bev and Ben, feels so bizarrely normal, even with the looming threats of Tom Rogan and Derry hanging over their heads. There’s a natural camraderie between them that he can’t remember ever feeling with anyone else, already feeling more at home around them than he ever did in LA or the odd occasion he had travelled east to see his parents (albeit, not in Derry).

He wonders what it’ll be like when they find the others, when they all get their memories back. Just being around them, he’s getting more and more flashes, mostly mundane memories of the quarry or riding their bikes around town but with them comes such a strong sense of belonging that he questions how he could ever forget.

But there’s still some more pressing matters they need to deal with, like avoiding them all being killed by Beverly’s psychotic ex, if he wants to get the chance to find Eddie, Bill and Stanley. 

The three of them have ducked into some up-market chain restaurant to grab a bit to eat, huddled together at a cozy corner table when Ben brings it up, “Are you going to report him, Bev?”

She looks up from the menu, surprise on her face, “I hadn’t really thought about it?”

“The bruises are still fresh, Bev. No one’s going to doubt you when they see those,” Richie says.

“We’ll support you whatever you decide,” Ben reaches across the table to take her hand, “but it might be worth thinking about a restraining order.”

“I can’t. Our lawyers in Chicago are Tom’s friends from college, they’d never-“

“You can use mine,” Ben says, “They’re based in the city, I can call them tonight and ask them to take you on?”

Bev nods through the tears in her eyes and gives Ben’s hand a squeeze before letting go, “Thank you.”

“Not to add to the pile of shit already on your plate but I don’t think the hotel is safe for you either,” it’s as good a time as any to put that on the table, Richie thinks. “The paparazzi have been tailing me since this all started, it’d be too easy for Tom to find out where we’re staying.”

The table falls silent for a moment as they each consider the options. It’s eventually broken by Ben, “Does Tom know about me?”

“I don’t think so?” Beverly responds as Richie shakes his head.

“You can stay with me - only if you want to? My place is far too big for one person and I’ve got good security,” Ben offers, “You’re welcome too, Rich.”

Richie declines, he’s still got gigs to play in the city and as nice as Ben’s home is, it’s not exactly central for getting back to in the early hours of the morning. It feels like a good solution for Beverly though, in addition to the legal protection offered by a restraining order, and she agrees to the offer readily.

It’s not permanent, but it offers a security that crashing in Richie’s hotel room doesn’t. But with that comes the need to try and get Beverly’s belongings back, which is how Richie finds himself once again acting as lookout as Beverly and Ben go on a quick reconnaissance mission into what was Bev and Tom’s New York flat. She’s already asked a trusted friend from the Chicago office to collect some things from her residence there while Tom's out of the city and mail them out to New York. She thankfully hadn’t entirely unpacked after arriving in the city, having only been there a few days when Richie had turned up, so it should hopefully be a quick in-and-out.

They’ve already got Mike involved by calling the house to ensure Tom wasn’t home, Richie already too recognisable and not wanting to clue him into Ben’s existence. When Richie gets the all-clear text from Mike, they’re in for no more than ten minutes before they’ve reemerged with three cases and an overnight bag. Richie has a cab waiting for them to take all three to Ben’s house, finally taking Bev to temporary safety.

-

He goes to the same Starbucks opposite Eddie’s office every morning, as much habit at this point as any genuine hope that he’ll run into him, and the following Monday is no exception.

He’s checking his phone as he walks in, making sure that he has the right time to meet Beverly and Ben - the financial consultation finally scheduled for that afternoon. He’s wondering what new way the universe can conspire to keep them apart, whether one of Eddie’s colleagues will show up to the meeting in his place, when he collides with someone walking in the other direction.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole!” the person, the man, he walked into tells him.

He looks up from his phone, ready to apologise when he takes in the man in front of him and can’t help but start to laugh.

“What the fuck’s so funny?” obviously-Eddie asks.

His brow furrows before his eyebrows shoot up, recognition clear in his expression, “you’re that hack comedian!” It’s just not the recognition Richie was hoping for.

“Stand-up. Stand-up are the words you’re looking for, Eds,” Richie replies as though he’s talking to a very slow child.

“Don’t call me-,” Eddie trails off and there, this time, is the recognition Richie was hoping for. “Holy shit, Richie?!”

Well that was easier than Richie expected.


	4. Eddie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's reunion with the the diminshed Losers' Club and his returning memories leads him to reassess his life, and a trip to the hospital leads to a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this has taken to post. I'll spare you all the excuses (which include a ton of jetlag and a general aversion to the holidays) and let you get on with reading the chapter. Quick warning that there is some violence in this chapter but it's not violence against women.
> 
> I've also only just realised you can reply to comments so will actually do that form now on! As always they're very much appreciated :)

There’s cooling coffee from Richie’s cup splashed on the front of Eddie’s suit so they stand next to the sugar and milk station as Eddie dabs at it with a napkin.

“Uh, sorry about that,” Richie says, gesturing with his cup towards the faint stain on Eddie’s lapel.

“Shit, it won’t come out. I’m meant to be at a meeting in an hour with…” Eddie trails off as his eyes widen, the client’s name suddenly familiar.

“Ben Hanscom,” Richie finishes for him. “Uh, yeah, I was getting desperate and Ben just happened to have a company lying around…”

“You were luring me to a fucking fake meeting?” Eddie exclaims.

“Technically,” Richie drags the word out, “but only because I’ve been coming here for over a week - with no luck - and I’m pretty sure some of the staff think I’m homeless.”

Eddie scoffs and give his outfit a quick once over as if to say well, yeah. “Jesus, Rich, couldn’t you have just called like a normal person instead of, I don’t know, fucking stalking me?”

“Ok, I can see we’ve clearly got off on the wrong foot - Mike hadn’t found your phone number yet so I couldn’t call you, by the way-“

“Wait, Mike’s stalking me too?” Eddie interrupts.

“What, no, he’s in Derry.” Ok, new approach, he thinks, “Don’t you find it really fucking odd that you don’t remember Derry? Or that you didn’t remember me, or Ben, or Mike, or me?”

Eddie’s brow furrows in thought “You already said you, idiot” he mumbles, thinking through what Richie just said. Now that Richie’s in front of him, albeit with some prodding, he remembers they were friends. But he’s known of Richie for years, watched far more of his shows than he cares to admit and not once did he even think about the Richie Tozier he knew as a kid, let alone that they were one and the same.

He doesn’t think he’s ever known anyone else with the surname Hanscom so why the hell didn’t that seem familiar when his secretary put that meeting in his diary? As he concentrates, he realises there were others too, other people beside him and Richie, Ben and Mike, who he can’t even put a name to, let alone a face.

And Derry, where the fuck even is that? He grew up in New England but as he tries to pin down the state or any distinguishing features of his hometown he draws a blank.

His anxiety is spiralling and he feels the shortness of breath grow as he gets more and more confused. He digs around in his suit jacket for his inhaler, even that feels wrong somehow but he doesn’t know what else to do so takes a couple of quick puffs. “What the fuck is going on Richie?” he chokes out.

Richie runs a hand down his face, this part never gets any easier. “It’s a really long, really fucking unbelievable story. I promise I’ll explain as much as I know, but I’ll look less crazy if Ben’s there to back me up. I know you only remembered me five minutes ago, and I know it’s a lot to ask, but please trust me here, Eds.”

Given everything that Richie has told him so far he has absolutely no reason to. This man, who he didn’t even remember in the context of them being childhood friends, has admitted to stalking him, having someone else out of state cyber-stalk him and attempting to entrap him with another forgotten friend. And is now asking him to, willingly, go with him to a fake meeting that he was being lured to under false premises.

But he trusts him. He has no clue why, it goes against all of his natural instincts to be suspicious of other people, but it’s unfailingly there. He sighs, “Fine. But you should know that I’m texting the office to call the cops if I’m not back by 3pm.”

Richie grins, “I’d expect nothing less. Let’s walk to the subway together, in broad daylight where it would be very difficult for me to murder you and hide your body.”

Eddie scrunches up his face in disgust, at first, Richie assumes, at the idea of being murdered, but that apparently wasn’t the part Eddie had objected to. “We’re not taking the fucking subway! Do you know how disgusting those trains are? How much bacteria is on those handrails? I don’t want to get fucking e-coli!” 

Richie’s trying very hard not to laugh at Eddie’s outburst and the memories of many similar rants from their childhood that are suddenly flooding his memory. He’s apparently failing if the growing pissed-off expression on Eddie’s face is any indication.

“I’m taking my car,” Eddie huffs, and turns to walk out of the coffee shop. Richie hurries after him, his unfinished cup of coffee abandoned on the station behind him.

-

Eddie’s car is unsurprisingly spotless and Richie gets in cautiously, trying his best not to bring in any dirt on his shoes.

Eddie sets up his phone for GPS and starts driving, getting them out of the parking garage and en route to Ben’s office.

“So…you live in New York now?” Eddie asks.

“Nope, I’m a proud Californian - just slumming it on the East Coast for work.”

Eddie opens his mouth about to respond but his phone buzzes, drawing his attention away. Whatever it is, Eddie ignores it, tapping the screen back to the map.

“California? Really? Where’s your tan then?”

“It’s here somewhere,” Richie replies, pretending to look around before pulling his middle finger out of his opposite shirt sleeve and flipping Eddie off.

Eddie does his best not to laugh, and to keep his eyes on the road, but there is a slight upward twitch to the corners of his mouth. “Why California?”

“It was the furthest I could get from Derry and still be in the lower 48.” Saying it aloud is the first time he’s really acknowledged the reason behind his choice. The other Losers stayed relatively close for college, not moving further afield until they had graduated. Richie had felt like the only one without a plan and as the others moved away, his plan became solely focussed on getting out of his hometown. The draw of Hollywood, of giving the LA comedy scene a chance played a part, but if he’s honest with himself he wanted to get as far away from Derry and the painful memories it held there.

Of course, if he’d known all he had to do was cross the town limits to forget then he might not have strayed so far.

Nevertheless, they’ve found their way back to each other. Fate, or some other force, brought him to this city at the right time, nudged him in the right direction to set the wheels in motion and has been offering up his old friends at an almost alarming rate. He doesn’t understand it but he’ll be eternally grateful for the past few weeks.

It does, however, beg the question _why California?_ The more the pieces of his old life fall into place, the fewer reasons he can think of to go back.

The buzzing again of Eddie’s phone breaks through his thoughts and he attempts to shake them off, now’s not the time for him to heap another personal dilemma onto the pile of shit he’s already wading through.

“You ok, man? You kind of spaced out there.” Eddie’s once again ignored the notification and is glancing at him with concern from where they’re stopped at a red light.

“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “Hey, you should come out and visit when all this is over.”

The car pulls up in front of a modern-looking office building and Richie belatedly realises that they’ve arrived.

“When what is over?” Eddie asks and Richie stumbles over his own thoughts as he tries to think of something, anything to say to that. He’s saved by the sound of Eddie’s phone ringing. An image of a woman who is the spitting image of Sonia Kaspbrak lights up the screen and Richie feels even more like he’s entered _the Twilight Zone_.

“Wow, Eds, Mrs K hasn’t aged a day! Are those highlights?”

Eddie’s gaze snaps towards him with a glare, “shut up, asshole. It’s Myra, my girlfriend.”

He taps to accept the call and immediately a voice fills the car, “You didn’t respond to my text, Eddie.”

Eddie sighs, “Myra, I’m at work-”

“Did you remember to take your tablets? You know how you get if you forget! And when you don’t text me back, what am I meant to think?”

“You’re meant to think I’m at work, Myra. I’ve got to go to a meeting, I’ll call you back-”

“You haven’t told me if you took your medicine, dear.”

Eddie’s eyes roll skywards. Richie sits beside him, marvelling at how, for the second time in a week he’s stuck watching one of his friends reenact their relationship with a fucked-up parent.

“I took the damn tablets, Myra,” Eddie responds through somewhat gritted teeth. “Look, I really do have to go. I’ll speak to you after work.”

Myra starts to respond, “Eddie-bear-” but Eddie hangs up the call and immediately switches off his phone too to prevent any further calls.

Richie feels as though his eyebrows might have migrated above his hairline given his reaction to what he just heard, “Eddie-bear? Jesus christ, did you actually find a way to clone Mrs K?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie retorts but it doesn’t have the venom that Richie would usually expect. Eddie unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him then awkwardly stands besides the car. “Are you coming?” he asks through the shut window.

-

They take the elevator up to a boardroom with glass windows on all sides looking out over the Manhattan skyline and beyond.

Eddie immediately notes Beverly’s presence beside Ben when they enter and looks around, expecting to see Mike, Stan and Bill, even if he can’t remember their names. “Are the others here too?”

Ben and Beverly share a look of confusion before Ben asks Richie, “How does he remember?”

“We carpooled,” Richie replies by way of explanation, Eddie complaining at the same time, “I’m standing right here.”

Beverly and Ben both look somewhat sheepish and apologise, before finally greeting Eddie - Beverly’s first in to give him a tight hug before Ben gives him the customary slaps on the back.

There are six chairs around the table and Richie wonders if Ben planned this or if the universe it just a little too on the nose. 

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Ben walks around the conference table and presses a few keys on a laptop near the top of the room. Within seconds the large, wall-mounted screen is illuminated with Mike’s face.

“Holy shit!”

“Good to see you, Eddie,” Mike’s greeting come through the speakers.

They all get settled, Ben reaching across for a decanter of water which he passes around, as a comfortable silence falls over the room.

“And then there were five,” Richie says to break it but also because he’s feeling proud of himself, proud of them, this band of lost adults that he’s slowly bringing together again.

Eddie looks between the three in the room, and Mike on the screen, and feels somewhat out of place, “So, uh, did you all keep in touch after school?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Ben asks Richie incredulously

“It was a ten minute drive, Ben! And I wanted to actually get here alive, so no, I didn’t tell him about the mystical memory wipe or the murdered kids!”

Eddie, who had his glass halfway to his mouth, freezes, eyes going wide. Seeing this, Beverly scoots her chair closer and tries to catch Eddie’s focus, “None of us stayed in touch, Eds. We all forgot as soon as we left Derry.”

“Except for Mike, cause he never left,” Richie adds, sticking a thumb towards the screen.

“Oh,” Eddie takes a moment to process that. “When did you all…?”

Ben gets up again and goes to type something into the laptop. Richie’s video is soon loading on youtube, causing Richie to groan and thump his head down into his hands to avoid having to watch it.

Eddie watches it all, eyebrows raised. When the video ends he asks the room at large one question, “why don’t I remember?”

The sympathetic smiles he gets in response do very little to help, much like the the awkward explanation Mike attempts, saying just enough but clearly missing out key parts of the story.

He leans across to Richie to ask in a quiet tone, “Is he always like this?” causing Richie to burst out laughing.

“Yeah, Mikey’s yet to give up all his secrets,” he says loud enough for Mike to hear.

Mike, in turn, apologises, “I will tell you, I promise. Just not now. Trust me, the longer you don’t remember the better.”

Just as Eddie’s about to question what the fuck that means, an alarm on his watch signifies that the meeting should be drawing to a close and he reluctantly stands up. “Sorry, I’ve got to get back, I’ve got another meeting in an hour.”

Ben assures him that he’ll send him some figures so that the meeting can appear legitimate if anyone asks and they agree to meet up again that evening to properly catch-up.

-

That evening, they meet at a pizzeria near Eddie’s work. Eddie arrives with a list of allergies and what is effectively a curfew, but it’s still easily the best night he can remember having, squeezed into a small booth beside Bev, with Richie and Ben sitting opposite.

It’s light and fun in a way Eddie can’t remember being with anyone, and it’s definitely unexpected given the little he knows about Beverly’s husband and the reason they are all back together. Most of all it’s easy. Easy to fall back into their old patterns and easy to endlessly tease one another in the same way as when they were kids. 

It feels as though they still are, even as he has to check his watch to make sure he’s not overstaying for the umpteenth time as they sit trading stories over drinks and coffee after the meal. He looks up to find Beverly watching him, concern evident on her face.

“Do you remember your Mom?” she asks gently, unsure if Eddie has enough of his memory back to remember the way she treated him as opposed to whatever partial version his altered memories have left him with.

Eddie looks at her like she’s insane, “of course I remember my Mom!”

Bev shakes her head slightly, it’s obvious Eddie either doesn’t remember enough or isn’t getting what she means, “I mean, do you remember what your mom was like? When we were kids?”

Eddie thinks about it, still not sure what Beverly means by that. He knows his mother, still sees her, on occasion, when work can’t act as a valid excuse not to. But as he thinks, he struggles to recall anything specifically from his childhood.

He knows what his mother is like, knows how frequently she’s called since he moved away for college and how much she worries - he can only assume she was the same when he was younger. 

Beverly reaches for Eddie’s hand and holds it tightly as she speaks, “I married a man exactly like my father. I don’t know what you know about cycles of abuse, Eds, but I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”

Eddie has no clue what to say to that. It feels like a disservice to everything Beverly’s been through - well, what he knows of it anyway - to say the two are at all comparable but he can likewise tell how genuinely Beverly believes what she’s saying and he intuitively trusts her judgement, regardless of how little he remembers.

“I know you don’t remember much yet, but please think about therapy once this is all over. I know everything’s crazy just now but we deserve happiness, Eds, I truly believe that and I want to make sure we both do everything we can to get there.” Eddie squeezes her hand back because _fuck_ does he want to be happy too. He sees Richie looking over at them from where he’s been planning with Ben, an eyebrow raised in question at what they’re discussing, with particular question apparently being given to their clasped hands.

He thanks Bev and gives her a hug, saying as he does, “I want us to be happy too.”

-

A week later Eddie texts him at 10am on Sunday morning asking if he can come over. Richie ignores the text because he’s sleeping, like any ordinary person would be.

There’s a knock at his door ten minutes later.

He ignores it at first but the knocking comes again, this time accompanied by Eddie’s voice “I know you’re in there, asshole!”

Richie begrudgingly drags himself out of bed and trudges over to the door which he opens reluctantly. “You say the sweetest things, Eds.”

He rubs at his eyes and properly looks at Eddie, or rather, at the three suitcases and a weekend bag that are standing beside Eddie in the hall. “Going somewhere?”

Eddie doesn’t answer, instead shoving past him to bring each of his bags into the room, leaving them in a pile by the door.

Richie sighs, running a hand through his hair, “make yourself at home,” he mutters and gestures vaguely to the room before going back to his bed and flopping onto it face down.

He enjoys a few moments of relative silence, Eddie still moving his bags about on the other side of the room, before he hears Eddie approaching and going past the bed, and then, suddenly, the room is flooded with light as the curtains are pulled back.

“What the fuck?” he asks but it’s mumbled by the pillow.

Despite this, Eddie seems to get the gist. “It’s almost noon, why would you still have your curtains shut?”

Richie groans, “Is it too late to say fuck off?” He feels something hit his side and given the lightness and softness of the object correctly deduces that Eddie has thrown one of the decorative pillows from the couch at him.

Richie groans once more for effect and pulls the pillow on top of his head to block out the light.

-

It’s midweek and neither of them have anywhere to be with any immediacy. They’ve fallen into somewhat of a routine since Eddie moved in and he finally established that he’d broken things off with Myra and had been promptly kicked out of their shared apartment. Eddie had also somehow managed to get time off work, ostensibly due to stress but in reality to give him space to adjust to whatever his life had become in such a short span of time.

Richie’s still in bed, watching some B-movie from the 60s while Eddie’s washing in the bathroom. A knock comes from the room door and Richie resigns himself to the fact that either he or the hotel is clearly cursed and that he’s destined to never get a quiet morning to himself.

He hauls himself up and walks over to the door, unlatching the chain and opening it without thinking to look through the peephole to check who was on the otherside, something that he immediately regrets when he sees Tom Rogan standing in the hallway.

“Where’s my wife, Tozier?”

Richie tries to slam the door shut but Tom’s already got his hand on the door edge and pushes his way into the room.

“She’s not here, Tom.”

Tom looks around for a few seconds before he hears the sounds coming form the bathroom, another person evidently inside, and Richie has never been so glad that Eddie’s the risk-averse paranoid fucker that he is, knowing he’ll have the bathroom door locked tight.

Not that that will necessarily hold up for long with the determination that Tom is showing, yanking on the door before giving up and proceeding to hit the handle repeatedly to get the door open by force instead.

“What the fuck?” Eddie shouts from inside as Richie calls out to him not to open the door.

Eddie’s voice, a decidedly male voice, causes Tom to turn his attention to Richie. “Didn’t take you for a fucking fairy, Rich.” He sneers his name.

This is all too familiar to Richie and he suddenly remembers being run out of the arcade in Derry with a different slur but the same hatred. He’s backing away from Tom, whose sole focus is now on him given that Beverly is evidently not there. “Tell me where my wife is.”

“Look, you seem really well adjusted - so don’t take this the wrong way - but you’d have to be fucking crazy to think I’m going to tell you anything about Bev.”

He backs into the couch, and in the moment it takes him to look and see what was blocking his path, Tom’s fist connects with the side of his face.

He’s stunned, and it takes a few seconds for him to get his bearings and work out what the fuck just happened, or rather, is happening, as Tom punches him again and then gets a kick in for good measure.

It’s been a long time since he was beaten up - and, god, those were memories he could do without - but he remembers enough of how to get away. He’s so focussed on trying to get enough space between Tom and himself so that he can knee him in the groin, all while trying to dislodge the hands now wrapped tight around his neck, that he fails to hear the bathroom door open.

Thankfully Tom likewise doesn’t hear it through his fog of rage, or the quiet but hurried steps towards them, and only remembers Eddie’s presence when the ceramic lamp connects with the back of his head. He reaches round to feel the area of impact and stares at the blood on the hand he brings back before promptly falling unconscious.

“Shit! Fuck!” Eddie rolls Tom off of Richie and helps Richie to his feet and away from Tom. “Shit, are you ok?” He tentatively reaches out to touch Richie’s face and pulls his hand back almost immediately, not liking what he sees.

Richie attempts to crack a smile but the tangy copper taste of blood makes it hard to do so. “Eddie, have you met Beverly’s delightful husband Tom?”

Eddie casts a frantic, worried glance back over to Tom’s still unconscious form when the room door thuds with a shout of “Hotel security! Open the door.”

Eddie scrambles across to open the door, “We need a fucking ambulance!”

The men at the door take in the scene inside, Richie struggling to his feet with a bloodied face, and the unmoving body further into the room. “What the hell happened here?” one asks.

“That psychopath fucking attacked him!” Eddie practically shouts, “Why the fuck haven’t you called for an ambulance?”

“There’s an ambulance, and cops, on the way, Mr…?”

“Kaspbrak,” Eddie replies, somewhat deflating.

Richie gingerly attempts to walk across before giving up from the pain and sagging against the back of the couch, “Uh, hi? Richie Tozier. That’s Tom Rogan, I think you’ll find that his ex-wife Beverly Marsh has a restraining order against him. He didn’t take too kindly to me not telling him where she was.”

The men look between Richie, and Tom’s unconscious form on the floor. “He attacked you?”

“I believe ‘beat the shit out of me’ is the technical term,” Richie quips. 

A radio crackles and the younger of the two security guards moves back out into the hallway to respond. When he comes back in he’s accompanied by a uniformed NYPD officer and three paramedics, one of whom makes a beeline for Richie.

He swallows down the bile that rises in his throat from someone touching his neck, more from the trauma than the rapidly growing pain. He’s asked to do a few breathing tests, and, when those are satisfactory, is allowed to walk, with help from the paramedics, down to the service entrance to the waiting ambulance, Eddie close behind. He briefly panics that Tom is going to be wheeled down into the same vehicle, only relaxing when the doors are shut behind them and he can feel the steady movement of the ambulance as it begins to drive, Eddie’s hand a comforting presence on top of his.

-

It’s a long afternoon.

There’s a lot more medical tests, not only on his throat but his head and his chest to check for any internal bleeding or broken bones. Eddie’s taken into another room to also be checked over, despite his protestations that, for once, he’s completely fine.

There’s statements to the police and all of Richie’s injuries are photographed as evidence. By the end of it all he feels as though he’s relived the attack three times over.

They walk out of the final consultation room a number of hours later to see Bev and Ben curled up in the waiting room chairs. Bev looks up and is over in a shot, “I’m so, _so_ sorry, Richie.” She has tears in her eyes and Richie pulls her into a hug, trying to hide his wince of pain when one of her hands brushes against one of the bruises on his ribs.

“It’s not your fault Tom’s a dick.”

“I know but if I’d just-“ Richie cuts her off. “It’s not your fault Bev,” he says more firmly.

“What’s the prognosis?” Ben asks Eddie.

“He needs to take it easy for a few weeks. Unfortunately there’s nothing they can do about his personality.” Eddie responds.

“You wound me, Eds,” Richie goes to bring the back of hid hand to his head as if he’s going to faint but flinches when his hand makes contact with his forehead, “Fuck! Ouch! Actual wounds. Right.”

Eddie sighs and rolls his eyes before turning to Beverly, “Have the police spoken to you, Bev?”

“Yeah, they spoke to me when we got here. They’re keeping him locked up over night for violating the restraining order. They’ve recommended that Ben and I look at some extra security, he’ll make bail long before it ever gets to court.”

Ben wraps an arm gently around Bev’s shoulders, “already on it. We should have a security guard by tomorrow.”

Bev looks up at him with a grateful smile and leans into his side. “What about you two?”

Richie looks to Eddie who gives a slight shrug, neither of them having had time to think about that yet. “They took our statements, I need to decide if I’m pressing charges.”

“Of course you’re fucking pressing charges!” Eddie interjects.

“I’ll need to press charges,” Richie amends, “We’ll need to find somewhere to stay that doesn’t have blood stains on the carpet and still has all of its lamps intact.”

“All of its lamps?” Ben asks. Apparently that part of the story had been missed out in both Eddie’s phone call and the interaction with the cops.

“My knight in shining armor here smashed a lamp over the back of Tom’s head.”

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up. “Remind me not to piss you off,” he says to Eddie.

-

The drive back from the hospital feels longer than it is, Richie struggling to find a way to sit that doesn’t make his torso hurt. He regrets declining Ben’s offer to go back to his far nearer house, Ben and Beverly already too far away in the opposite direction for him to change his mind.

“Hey, do you remember when you broke your arm?” he asks as a distraction.

“Oh yeah!” Eddie hadn’t remembered, “I fell, right?” He thinks about it some more and immediately regrets doing so, “through a _floor_?”

“Fuck, it’s never just a normal day is it?”

Eddie only vaguely hears him, focus split between the road and his memories. “I’m going to pull over,” he announces.

He finds a gas station a few blocks before they cross the bridge into the city and pulls into the side, staring out the window with his hands still on the wheel when he speaks. “You were there, I think? You kept telling me to look at you, you didn’t want me to see something, what the fuck didn’t you want me to see?”

Richie searches through his memory too, mostly getting the emotional flashback of the fear he felt when he heard Eddie screaming. Screaming because he’d fallen, screaming in agony because his arm was broken, and screaming in terror at the clown leering at him as it eyed up its next meal.

“Fuck! Fuck it’s real.”

“What’s real, Rich? What-” Eddie’s memories are a bit slower returning but the gap is slowly getting filled in: they weren’t alone, the other Losers were there too, defending them from something, something that was worse than the broken arm, worse than falling through a floor of a dilapidated house. Something with big teeth, teeth that it was going to use on him.

“Oh god.” He fights to open the door and hauls himself out of the car into the fresh air. He fumbles for his inhaler and gasps as he uses it, leaning against the car with his hands on his thighs, staring in shock at the ground.

Richie takes a few moments longer to get out of the car, shock delaying him, but soon flings open his door to throw up on the grass at the side of the road. He pulls a tissue out of his pocket to wipe at his mouth and walks around to stand beside Eddie once he does.

“What the fuck was that?” Eddie asks him.  
  
“The clown?” Richie asks in return, needing to confirm that they’re both sharing the same memory, or folie à deux, whichever it is.

Eddie responds with a sharp nod. Richie shakes his head and joins him in staring at the ground. “I don’t fucking know. I’ve seen it before but I thought I was going crazy, still kind of hoping I am.”

“Maybe we both are.”

Richie gives a grim smile and lets both of them believe it, for a moment.

But he knows that’s not true, “Ben’s remembering weird shit too, Bev’s been dreaming about us all for years.”

“And Mike?” Eddie asks.

“Mike knows but I think he’s still hoping he can delay it, that we get the full 27 years. Whatever that’s for,” Richie replies. “I think he’s been trying to protect us.”

“Fuck, poor guy.”

-

It’s a few hours later, once they were both fit enough to get back on the road and get safely back that they remember a killer, shape-shifting clown is not the most immediate of their problems. The hotel room is trashed and while the hotel offers them another room for the night, Richie decides it’s time he looks at renting a place in the city. The decision has nothing to do with the hotel and his fellow guests’ complaints about the constant stream of people coming and going from his room at all hours. 

Tom’s safely in a police cell but he doesn’t want to still be here when he makes bail. Beverly’s been trying to move their finances around, using the accounts she still had access to, to delay the process but they both know it’s a matter of hours, not days.

He calls his management unprompted for the second time in a month - they’re definitely getting suspicious now - and asks if they can find him a place. He throws in that it needs to have two bedrooms, casually mentions that he’s staying in the city to help out an old friend who’s fallen on hard times (“fuck you!” Eddie yells from the bathroom) but that he’d be willing to finally go along to some of the auditions they’ve been attempting to get him to for the past however many years as an olive branch.

He hadn’t stopped to think that they’d know about what happened, he hadn’t even clocked that there had been paparazzi to see the cops arriving, too caught up in what had happened. There’s conflicting ‘sources’, one from the hotel claiming he’d trashed his room in a drug-fuelled rage and others from the hospital acknowledging that his injuries weren’t self-inflicted, and he’s grateful that his agent knows him well enough only to ask, “anything we should be concerned about, Richie?”

“A friend’s fucking psychopath of an abusive ex-husband didn’t take kindly to me not telling him where she was.”

“Fuck,” is the response, “Are you ok? Is she ok?”

“She’s safe. I need to move, _quickly_ ,” Richie emphasises.

“Right, I’ll get right on it. We’ll get an address to you as soon as we can.”

“Thanks, man.” He ends the call.

Neither of them expect to get much sleep that night, despite the furniture barricading the door to prevent a repeat of that morning (it had taken considerable persuasion on Richie’s part to get Eddie to overlook the fire risk that that posed).

Richie doesn’t even attempt to get into the bed, instead they bring the cover over to the couch and each take an end, not fitting as well as they did in the hammock when they were kids but well enough for one night. They don’t even make it through one movie before they’re both passed out, limbs halfhazardly intertwined and hanging over the edge.

-

Richie wakes up with a sore neck, most of his body throbbing with pain and a foot in his face and yet it’s still the best night’s sleep he can remember. He pulls himself up into a sitting position slowly, doing his best not to make the pain he is feeling any worse or to jostle the still sleeping Eddie or, and takes a moment to look at him, noting that even in his sleep he’s still got faint frown lines and a tense brow. He looks peaceful though, as peaceful as he gets anyway, and Richie’s grateful that he’s getting some respite from their current reality.

He scans his surroundings in the dim morning light for his phone and leans down to pick it up from the spot on the floor it appears to have landed on. He taps the screen and sees the two missed calls and subsequent messages from his agent from not long after they must have fallen asleep. He opens the messages, thrilled to see that the most recent consists solely of an address. Their new apartment.

With an enthusiasm he has rarely felt upon waking, he extracts himself from the sofa with the intention of a quick shower, well as quick a shower as he can have when it hurts to move, but stops when he hears Eddie stirring, clearly having been disturbed despite Richie’s best intentions.

“Since when were you a morning person?” Eddie asks without opening his eyes.

“Since I had confirmation we’re moving out of this fucking crime scene of a hotel.”

Eddie is immediately awake, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, “he found somewhere? Already?”

“We’ve got some new digs, Eduardo!” Richie announces as confirmation, resuming his path to the bathroom and his shower, as Eddie is already up and unzipping the first of his many cases.

They’re across the city and in the apartment within the hour.

-

It’s a decent size, clean with a good view across the Hudson, but most importantly the building has security who are under strict instructions not to let anyone resembling Tom Rogan through the front door.

They wheel their cases in and each take an initial look around. Despite already crashing in Richie’s room, something about being in an actual apartment makes Eddie long for the missed opportunities of the past twenty years.

“Do you think we would have kept in touch? If we hadn’t lost our memories, I mean” Eddie asks aloud, as he checks the cupboards in the kitchen, half to himself and half to Richie, but it’s the latter who answers.

“Are you kidding me? Of course we would!”

“You think?”

Richie sticks his head out from one of the rooms, “Little Eds and Richie, taking on the big city? We’d have been living the dream, man. We’d have been roomies, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Eddie repeats.

“Maybe with Stan? He’d have pretended he hated it though. And we’d have to have a spare room for Mrs K and I’s conjugal visits.”

“Seriously? Can we have one serious conversation without you desecrating my mother’s memory?” he asks.

Richie smirks, “I’ll show you desecration.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and shuts the empty fridge door, changing the subject as he does “We need food and I’m going for a walk. I’ll swing by the D’Ag on the way back and get some groceries, can you get something for dinner?”

When there’s no response Eddie walks across to the doorway to the room Richie’s in and finds him staring at an empty wall. “Rich?” he prompts.

“Sure. Food, walk, got it,” he responds, still looking deep in thought which is uncharacteristic enough that it makes Eddie feel uneasy.

“Right.” Eddie leaves, brow furrowed and resolves to pick up some pizza on the way back, too, as Richie’s clearly not going to.

-

He struggles through the door when he returns, rapidly getting pissed off when there’s no sign of Richie coming to help with the four paper bags he’s juggling or the pizza box balanced haphazardly between them.

“Are you fucking serious?” he shouts but it’s drowned out by the music playing from the room Richie was in earlier.

He struggles across to the kitchen table and dumps the bags, noting the lack of any other food containers, and pivots immediately in the direction the noise is coming from.

He only processes that it’s coming from his room - well, the room they’d agreed would be his - as he approaches the door. “Richie, I swear to God-”

He stops, taking in the room in from of him. The single bed from Richie’s room has been moved into his - how the hell Richie managed that on his own in the space of two hours he doesn’t know - a bedside table placed between the two. He spots his suitcases piled up beside the in-built wardrobe and, in doing so, also notices the newly hung _Back to the Future_ and _Ghostbusters_ posters hanging on the wall and that it’s ‘Losing My Religion’ playing loudly from Richie’s phone. He tries not to think of the inevitable noise complaint that will be coming from their new neighbours.

Richie watches him silently taking in the room, “Is it too much? It’s too much, right?”

When Eddie still doesn’t respond he walks over to his phone and switches the music off, “This was stupid, sorry.” He’s at a loss for what to do with his hands and sinks them as deep as they’ll go into his pockets while steadily avoiding Eddie’s gaze. “I’ll get Frank - he’s one of the security guys downstairs - back up and we can move everything back.”

“Are you determined to make our neighbours hate us?” Eddie asks.

That was decidedly not the first thing Richie expected Eddie to say. “Huh?” he asks, finally looking at him.

Eddie nods his head in the direction of the phone and Richie finally realises what he means. “Oh, right. Sorry?”

Eddie gives a curt nod and goes back to taking in the room, eventually asking, “What is this?”

Richie likewise looks around, “Uh-when you were talking about all the shit we missed out on like rooming at college, I just thought ‘fuck that’, why do we have to play by it’s rules, you know? Ok, we’re in our mid-thirties, but we can still claim back a bit of what we missed out on.” He pauses to gesture around the room, “It’s the dorm room we never had. As I said, it’s stupid-”

“It’s not,” Eddie interrupts.

“It’s not?” Richie parrots, genuinely surprised.

“I doubt we’d have had anywhere as nice as this, and we definitely wouldn’t have had this view, but you get points for the posters. And not doing your share of the shopping is definitely true to you at 18, and any age,” he adds.

“Shit, sorry!” Richie says, finally remembering he was meant to get something for dinner. “Staying true to the theme, we could order pizza?”

Eddie rolls his eyes in response, “there’s some on the counter.”

“Sweet!” Richie is out the door within seconds.

Eddie stays behind, however, once again thinking about how different his life, all of their lives, would have been if they had remembered, and wonders if any of them can truly recover from what they’ve already lost. If Beverly can recover from her bruises and if he can likewise recover from his mental scars, or if Mike can ever get back the time and opportunities he’s lost by keeping watch in Derry.

He realises that, despite living with one of them, he doesn’t yet have a good grasp of the effect it has had on Richie and Ben. He’s only seen Ben around Beverly, the same adoration from when they were teens ever-present on his face. He knows Ben’s doing exceptionally well for himself, they all are weirdly, but he’s not naive enough to think that means Ben doesn’t have his demons.

Richie, on the other hand, is visibly world-weary in contrast to his younger self. There’s a cynicism and, frankly, a self-depreciation which he can’t identify the origins of, that speaks to parts of Richie’s life that Eddie doesn’t have access to.

He idly wonders what keeps Stan and Bill up at night.


	5. Bill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last two losers are proving harder to track down, leading Richie and Eddie to fly out to Bill's book signing in LA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick warning: there's a passing reference to a homophobic slur in the third section.

By the time they’ve actually eaten the now-cold pizza that Eddie had brought back, the window of time left to catch Mike during waking hours is rapidly narrowing.

Realising this, Richie shoves the plates to the side of their small dining table to create room for his laptop between himself and Eddie, but Eddie gets up to put the plates in the sink first before rejoining him at the table.

They haven’t exactly discussed what to say to Mike, or even discussed Pennywise in much detail since the initial memories returned, too preoccupied with moving to a place where they didn’t have to barricade the door to feel safe.

So when Mike answers with a casual, “Hey guys,” Richie decides it’s best to cut straight to the point.

“We remember, Mike.”

“You remember what?” Mike asks, a fake nonchalance in his voice.

“Mike, cut the shit.”

Mike sighs in defeat and runs a hand down his face, looking as if he has the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. “You get why I didn’t tell you? Why I couldn’t tell you?”

There’s a moment’s pause but Richie replies, resignation clear in his voice, “Yeah, we get it.” 

“Do Bev and Ben know?”

“No, and we don’t intend to tell them.”

“Good. That’s good,” Mike replies, not needing to ask why they made that decision. The responsibility of his memories and their pact has weighed heavy on him for years, the knowledge that he would inevitably have to pull the rug out from under the lives of his closest friends. He has equally envied and despised their loss of memory, their ability to live their lives without having to try and find the answer to the unsolvable riddle that is Pennywise, all the while knowing slowly but surely that your time is running out.

He doesn’t envy Richie as he imagines him having to break the truth to each one of their friends, uprooting each of their lives in a concrete way. He may not have seen it in person, but he’s seen the repercussions, both good and bad, and more importantly has seen the toll it’s taking on Richie, even from three states away.

Speaking of which, he tunes back in just in time to hear Richie respond, “Yeah, I’d like a week without ruining anyone else’s life. Well, any more than I’ve already fucked it up.”

“You know it’s not your fault, right? None of us blame you,” Eddie implores.

Richie just shrugs, “everyone would’ve been better off if I had just left it alone.”

“Not everyone. I wouldn’t have been, _Bev_ wouldn’t have been."

Mike nods along, “one of us had to do it, Rich. If it wasn’t you it would have been me in five years,” he confirms. “At least this way Bev got out of an abusive marriage sooner rather than later.” 

Richie laughs without any humour behind it, somehow not feeling any better. “A killer clown or an abusive husband. Well that’s a “would you rather?” for the books.”

He stares into the half-finished drink still leftover from his dinner, picking it up and swirling the contents of the glass around but not drinking any more. “Fuck, I hate this.”

“We all do, man.”

Which, yeah, is kind of the problem, Richie thinks as he settles the glass back down. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. “We need to find Stan and Bill.”

There’s a somewhat tense silence, each of them knowing what needs to be done but not eager to acknowledge it further for the time being. At least, not until the whole group is together. Which leaves only one other pressing matter to discuss.

“So how much do you remember?” Mike asks.

-

Their next step seems simple enough, Richie thinks as the four of them sit around Ben’s dining table, Mike joining virtually by a laptop placed symbolically near another chair.

“So we just call Stan and-“

“No!”

They all turn to look at Beverly. Ben lowers himself to sit on the arm of her chair, places a comforting hand on her arm and asks, “Why not, Bev?”

Beverly doesn’t look at any of them, staring into the distance with a haunted expression on her face. It’s the most traumatised Richie has seen any of them look thus far, and given everything that has happened that’s saying something. He’s certain she’s remembered Pennywise.

“Bev?” Ben prompts again.

“Every-“ she takes a slow, shuddery breath in an attempt to calm herself enough to speak. “Every night, since- since Derry, I’ve had nightmares.” Her gaze flickers to Ben and something silent passes between them, a look of recognition crossing Ben’s face as the screams he hears all too frequently suddenly make acute sense. “Even when I didn’t remember, I was dreaming about each of you,” she looks down at her hands, not wanting to look at any of them for what she has to say next. “I’ve seen all of us die.”

The admission hangs in the air, none of them expecting that and not sure what to say or what it even means.

“So what? There’s no point in even trying, we’re all going to die anyway?” Eddie asks frantically, pacing back and forth between the two doorways out of the room. Richie half expects him to bolt at any moment.

“That’s not what she said,” Ben replies at the same time Beverly says, “No.”

“No, it’s not fixed,” she continues, mentally pleading with Eddie to not jump to conclusions, to hear her out. “I don’t often remember the specifics but it changes. We’re different ages, different places.”

“Potential futures,” Mike realises.

Bev turns to the screen, “I think so, it’s so real Mike. Stan is the most consistent. Stan and-” She stops herself, the thousand yard stare creeping back into her face as she once again avoids eye contact.

“Stan and?” Richie prompts but there’s no answer. Not to that question.

“Stan’s terrified - I don’t know what of - but every way it happens-” she stops herself again, struggling to find a palatable way of saying it, a way that might make it seem less real, “he never makes it to Derry.”

Richie knows Stan is the same age as him but in a world that was too lacking in reliable authority figures, Stan had somewhat filled that void for him. Knowing that Stanley was still scared, potentially too scared to even go back to Derry, was like seeing a parent cry for the first time, an absurd distortion of the natural order of things. If Stan, logical, cynical Stan, the same kid that was brave enough to call all the adults out on their bullshit, couldn’t go back, what hope did the rest of them have. What hope did he have?

“We got out but we didn’t escape what was in Derry. We’ve each had something hanging over us since we got out of Derry. Abuse, loneliness, secrets that we’ve never shared. Stanley’s was pure fear.”

“Of what, Bev?” Ben pushes, everyone else in the room already knowing.

“I don’t know,” she reiterates, frustration clear on her face.

“So Stan’s on hold. Any lead on Bill?” Richie asks, wanting to turn the conversation away from the edge it seems to be dangerously leaning over. “Mike?” 

“He’s got a signing, but it’s on the other side of the country,” Mike says hesitantly, the screen shifting as he shares the details from a Barnes and Noble in LA.

“Great, Eds can fly out to see him.”

“Why the fuck do I have to do it?!” Eddie asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“Well Bev and I obviously can’t-”

“Oh, obviously,” Eddie rolls his eyes.

“And Ben actually has a job-“

“I have a job, dickwad.”

“That he actually goes to,” Richie unhelpfully clarifies.

“We don’t know what effect being alone will have on his memory, how quickly he could forget,” Mike interrupts, looking at Eddie - as much as he can through a Skype call - with concern on his face.

“I’ll go with him. I could do with picking up a few things from Casa Tozier anyway.”

In reality, he’d be happy enough to never return to LA. He has no real roots despite having lived there for nearly a decade, nothing that he has missed so far. But he’s not leaving this to chance. If there’s even the slightest chance that being apart will make them forget again, he’s not planning to let Eddie out of his sight.

-

He picks up when his manager calls later that day, hoping that doing so will buy him enough time for the trip to LA without anyone noticing he’s left the East Coast. He’s even gone to a few auditions they’d arranged, more as a peace offering than any actual actual interest on his part. He’s not surprised that the call is to tell him he hasn’t booked either. It’s unsurprisingly difficult to focus on giving a good performance with everything else going on.

He can hear Eddie ranting outside of the room and wraps up the call with a quick, “Sorry, man, somethings’s come up, I need to go.” He hangs up before there’s time for a response.

“Fuck!” Eddie shouts again from his place on the couch where last Richie checked he was borrowing his laptop to book their flights. It catches Richie by surprise and he’s instantly on edge.

“You ok over there, Eds?” Richie shouts from the kitchen. He puts down his phone and cautiously walks out into his open plan living room.

Eddie’s already too absorbed in whatever has pissed him off to respond to, or even acknowledge, Richie’s question. “Bachelor comedian Richie Tozier leaves his apartment with companion,” he reads from the screen where it’s captioning a photo he doesn’t remember being taken. Going by the outfit, which he’s still wearing, it had to be taken as they left for Ben’s apartment earlier that day.

“They might as well have called us gal pals and be fucking done with it!” Eddie slams shut the laptop and tosses it further down the couch.

Richie’s perched on the arm of the adjacent chair. He’s not one entirely sure where Eddie is going with this beyond a distinct feeling that Eddie is ashamed to have been pictured with him. “I can think of a few reasons they didn’t call us _gal_ pals.” He drawls on the ‘gal’ for emphasis, but again Eddie doesn’t acknowledge it.

He tries not to visibly react to what Eddie read out but he’s terrified. There’s something monstrous waiting for them all in Derry. Something monstrous in the shadows, something that nearly killed them when they were kids and he’s pretty sure will finish the job whenever they’re finally forced to return. But he’d take that thing over this any day.

It’s always been there, the fear, lurking behind his every action and every word. He may not have remembered his childhood but he remembered the way people acted when they suspected all too well. The way _fag_ was the go to insult, the hatred and suspicion that was ever-present if he looked at another boy the wrong way. He didn’t need to remember anything out of this world for that horror to be ever present in his life.

And it’s been creeping closer.

Ever since reuniting with his friends there’s this feeling that they know, that something he’s said or done but still can’t remember has exposed him. Hell, Beverly found out through her bizarre psychic dreams.

“Fucking hack writers - don’t have the courage to just fucking say it. Even Myra was able to say it to my fucking face,” Eddie continues.

He’s only just got Eddie back and he feels him rapidly slipping through his fingers, tainted somehow by just being in his presence. Of course he found a way to screw this up. “I’m sorry, Eds. I’ll ask them to retract, we can leave separately-,” he cuts off mid ramble as he processes what Eddie has just said, “wait, what?”

Eddie finally acknowledges him, looking across from where he’s still seated, “at least Myra had the nerve to accuse me of being gay to my fucking face!” He gesticulates as if that was obviously what he was talking about, continuing to speed up as he continues, “You take a few weeks to adjust to the fact that your whole adult life has been one big fat lie and suddenly it means you don’t like women any more?!”

The conversation has segued so much that Richie’s no longer sure which part is making Eddie angry. Or whether it’s the explicit accusation, or lack there of, that he’s angered by.

“Uh...,” he doesn’t want to discuss this, so close to home that his thought process is largely about aborting the conversation and making a quick exit. But he doesn’t. He still doesn’t know what Eddie is saying, if he’s saying anything at all, but it feels significant. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What do you think we’ve been doing, asshole?” Eddie stands up, the anger still obviously coiled within him but he takes a breath, adds, “I’m processing,” and walks to his room with no further explanation.

The laptop is left opened and Richie quickly glances at the article, but shuts the tab when it only makes him feel more paranoid. On the plus side, the confirmation page he exits into shows that their flights were booked before Eddie got sidetracked.

Richie briefly considers calling Bev for advice, but that would involve talking about it which he hasn’t done since that first evening, so instead he sits frozen to the spot, trying to work out what the hell just happened. 

-

He doesn’t see Eddie until the next morning when they’re up early to beat the traffic out to JFK and it’s obvious that they’re not continuing the previous night’s conversation. Which is fine, Richie’s a pro at ignoring his own feelings.

He greets Eddie with a chipper, “ready to go destroy another person’s life?” as they trudge to the car with their small bags.

Eddie doesn’t acknowledge him verbally until they’ve loaded their two meagre carry-ons into the back of his car, “so what’s the plan?”

“Plan?” Richie asks back as he opens the passenger side door.

“Yeah, the plan for meeting Bill and getting him to remember in the ridiculously short time we - sorry, I, since you’re too famous to stand in a queue - will actually have to talk to him.”

Richie ignores the jibe. “Didn’t think we’d need one, it’s been pretty easy so far. Well, except for you.”

Eddie rolls his eyes as he backs the car out of its space, “oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t make you stalking me any easier for you.”

“See? Was that apology so difficult?”

Eddie grits his teeth and attempt to focus on the road, cussing out a cab that cuts in front of him at the last minute. He speeds up when the light goes back to green, intentionally returning the favor by cutting in front of the cab at the first opportunity.

“Are you sure you’re allowed to drive? Like, legally?” Richie ask him, turning around to glance at the driver of the other car who looks furious. Shit, if they somehow survived the killer clown from outer space only to die in a car wreck, he’s going to be one pissed off ghost.

“I’ve yet to see you try, dickwad. And yes, legally. I worked for a limo service in the evenings at college.”

“I think that’s more terrifying that the clown.” Richie deadpans.

-

Richie has never been a fan of flying. Not because of any fear or crashing or even the unavoidable interactions with fans that he still hasn’t worked out how to handle, but rather a deep seated hatred of being cooped up, trapped in a metal box with nowhere to escape to for hours on end.

He’s struggling to keep himself still, his feet tapping at the ground and his fingers drumming on his arm rest. He feels trapped, never having been good at staying still for long periods or at entertaining himself to pass the time.

Eddie looks equally agitated, not that that’s unusual for him, and Richie wonders if he’s afraid of flying. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing Eddie had been afraid of.

“You ok?” he asks, unusually quiet, conscious of the numerous people within hearing distance, even in first class.

“What do you think Bev meant?” Eddie questions, apropos of nothing. It’s not at all what Richie expected to be bother him and, more specifically, he has not clue what Eddie means.

“Huh?” he stops tapping his fingers.

“Stan kills himself-“

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eds,” Richie interrupts, knowing full well what Bev had been insinuating, now that he knows that this is where Eddie’s mind is apparently at currently, but not needing it spelled out so clearly.

“Which we’ll _stop_ ,” Eddie barrels on, “but she was going to say another name. At least two of us die, Rich. Who knows what else could happen and we’re still fucking doing this?” He’s worked himself into a panic, wide-eyed and gripping his arm rests so tightly that his his hands are turning white. “I don’t want to die,” the last admission is quiet, almost child-like.

A chill washes through his blood, Eddie’s especially high-strung behaviour over the last few days suddenly making a lot more sense.

As horrific as the memories have been and as much as he has come to accept that there is likely still something lurking in the sewers under Derry - there has to be something still alive to control their memories like this - and that it’s dangerous, that they were lucky to get out alive last time, that still hadn’t translated into thinking about the risk on an individual level. “Fuck, you’re not going to die, Eddie,” he replies quickly but instantly wishes his voice sounded more sure of what he was saying.

He hasn’t even considered losing Eddie, so preoccupied with having him back in his life again and the constant struggle of ensuring he doesn’t say or do anything to give away his feelings, to not slip up to anyone, that the future beyond reuniting the Losers Club hasn’t particularly crossed his mind in any concrete fashion beyond a generic terror.

But, he realises now, facing Pennywise is the finish line that he’s rapidly approaching with each person they track down. Regardless of the oath that they swore to as kids, there was never really any choice for them to make - not if they ever wanted to get a chance to live their lives without It’s influence. Without having to fear that they’ll forget again if they spend so much as one night away from the others.

But he still doesn’t know what facing Pennywise really means, and isn’t sure he wants to. Not if it the risk is that great. _Shit_ , he needs to talk to Bev when they get back.

“We’ve done it before, right? We’ll get Bill then we’ll go to Stan and, fuck it, babysit him until we’re done with that fucking clown and he’s safe. Until we’re _all_ safe.” It’s as much for himself as it’s for Eddie.

“Do you really think we’ll all make it out?”

“We have to. I’m not willing to lose you again.” He curses himself for the admission in his panic and almost adds ‘any of you’, but Eddie doesn’t seem to have noticed it so he leaves it be. 

They sit in silence for the rest of the flight, each too wrapped up in the what ifs of the inevitable future.

-

Any hope of a respite when they land is ruined the moment they step through into the public arrivals area.

“How the fuck do they even know you’re here?” Eddie asks, trying to turn away from the blinding flashes.

“Someone’s tipped them off.” Richie unzips his duffle bag and digs around, pulling something out and handing it quickly to Eddie. A baseball cap, he realises, as Richie hurriedly pulls one on himself. He follows Richie’s lead.

“Are the rumours that you’re checking into rehab true?”

“Who’s your friend, Richie?”

“Is it true that your recent hospital trip was to cover-up an overdose?”

Eddie stops in his tracks, turning to face the reporter who had asked the last question. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Tom Rogan is facing charges for attacking Richie and you’re still making this bullshit up?”

Richie only realises Eddie has stopped when he hears him laying into the journalist, and immediately walks back to him, angling himself between the journalist and Eddie so that he can get his attention, his back is to the majority of the cameras. “It’s not worth it, don’t engage them.”

Eddie goes to say something but stops himself, taking a deep breath instead. With one quick glance back he lets himself be led away and follows Richie. “You don’t deserve this shit,” he says once they’re out of earshot. He shoots Richie a worried look when he doesn’t agree.

-

They arrive at Richie’s house around noon, carrying more stress than baggage but glad to finally be behind the security gates of Richie’s driveway.

“I have no clue what state it’s in,” he warns Eddie as they stand at the door, digging around in his carry on for his keys, “I didn’t exactly leave planning to be away for a month.”

He feels like an intruder stepping into his own home, everything inside reflective of a life that no longer feels like his own and one he’s no longer sure he even wants. He dumps his bag beside the door and leads Eddie inside.

“This is....nice,” Eddie comments, taking in the surprising lack of mess and generally modern decor.

“You don’t need to sound so surprised,” Richie shoots back.

“It’s just not what I expected.”

Richie scoffs, “what? You thought I lived in the Hollywood Hills?”

“Kind of?” Eddie admits. “I mean, all the parties, the girlfriends you mention in your set.” He realises too late what he’s just admitted to.

“You’ve watched my act?” Richie’s not sure whether to be elated or ashamed.

“Not the point,” Eddie deflects.

“Kinda the point.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and does his best to ignore Richie’s shit-eating grin. “I didn’t say it was good."

Richie laughs but there’s a bitterness to it, an underlying agreement, “It’s all a lie anyway.”

“What?” 

“The act, the exes, the whole fucking thing. I don’t even write my own material,” he sits down, the stress and sleep-deprivation instantly catching up with him. Being back in LA, back in this house, he has never felt like such a fraud, his past and present rapidly colliding and leaving a trail of devastation in their wake. 

Being around his friends, he knows who he wants to be. He can even occasionally envisage a future where he is that person, where he might even still have friends while being that person. He doesn’t dwell on it, dismissing the notion every time it crops up, but it’s there, a glimmer of hope in a twenty-year long void.

He can’t help but think how fucked up it is that the reality with the shape-shifting murderous clown is the one he prefers.

Eddie tentatively sits down next to him. “I’ll probably never repeat this, so you better appreciate it, but you’re funny, Rich. Probably the funniest person I know. Why wouldn’t you write your own stuff?”

Richie leans back, resting his head on the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling hoping to find an answer. 

“I’m going to tell you something you may find surprising, Eds. It may shock you.” The latter part is said in a voice imitating a mid-century B-movie. He switches back to normal for the admission, “I wasn’t as much of a ladies’ man as I made out to be at school.”

“No shit,” is the reply and Richie’s genuinely surprised. Did they all know he’d been bullshitting?

“So as I was saying, I wouldn’t do that to Mrs K, you know? But my whole act was based around that shit, ex-girlfriends and the crazy situations I got into, and the fans fucking loved it. It’s my whole base, man. But it got to a point where I just couldn’t come up with new material, not churning out that same bullshit, so they hired someone else to do it for me.” 

“And you want to change direction?” Eddie prompts.

“Something like that, yeah.”

There’s a contemplative but comfortable silence between the two. Eddie shifts back to get comfortable and eventually leans his head back too, turning to look at Richie. “What’ll you do when this is all over?”

“Aside from finding a really good therapist?”

Eddie laughs, “sign me up when you do.”

-

With no particular enthusiasm, Eddie finds himself standing in a queue inside Barnes and Noble just after the store opens, glaring daggers at Richie who is sitting in the in-house Starbucks, looking as conspicuous as possible with his hood pulled up and sunglasses on. It’s a matter of when, not if, he gets recognised and a spiteful part of Eddie hopes it’s sooner rather than later.

As the queue winds round, he walks past a group of girls giggling and slyly taking a photo of Richie as his section of the queue winds back past the cafe. He assumes he’s finally been recognised until he hears one of them exclaim “he doesn’t even go here!” to which the rest of the group break out into a more intense round of laughter. Eddie decides he just doesn’t get teenage girls.

He finally gets to the signing table and Bill looks up, giving him a friendly but otherwise empty smile, the lack of recognition obvious.

“Who should I make it out to?” he asks kindly.

“Eddie, Eddie Kaspbrak.” He gives Bill a moment to show any sign of awareness but it doesn’t happen so he barrels on. “I’m here with Richie. Richie Tozier? We all grew up in Derry together. Kind of running short on time for your to remember this.” He gives a quick look behind him at the seemingly never-ending queue winding its way around the store.

Bill’s brow furrows, “D-Derry?” he asks and Eddie has never been so grateful for his stutter, an obvious tell of stress.

“Yeah, Derry. The Loser’s Club, remember?” he hands over the printout of the photo that started it all.

Bill is looking increasingly distressed and his handler starts making motions to move Eddie on.

“Shit!” Eddie knows he’s running out of options, and time. “I’m really sorry, Bill, I didn’t want to do this but I need you to remember Georgie. Remember what happened to Georgie, Bill.”

Eddie can see the moment it comes back in his eyes, seconds before Bill stands up and slams his fists against the table, “F-f-fuck!” he shouts and the entire store goes silent, all eyes suddenly looking in their direction.

Security is there too and one of them places a hand on Eddie’s arm to guide him away, “Sir, you need to leave.”

“N-no!” the security guard turns to look at Bill, an equal amount of scepticism and apprehension on his face.

“No,” Bill repeats, a conscious effort to keep his voice measured this time. He turns to his assistant, “Sorry, I n-need a f-few minutes,” and then says to the wider room, “I’ll be b-back shortly.”

He gestures to Eddie to follow him into the back of the store, “You said R-Richie’s here?”

Eddie nods and gives the prearranged signal to Richie at the other side of the store, who manages to make as much of a scene just getting up from his table as Bill did shouting expletives in a book store. Eddie is very ready for this day to be over.

-

“I’m g-going to need one of you to t-tell me w-what the hell is g-going on,” Bill rounds on them the moment the are out of reach of anyone else, in what appears to be a staff area that has been converted into a holding room for visiting authors. 

With the door safely shut, Richie takes of the glasses and pulls down his hood. “Good to see you too,” he mutters but Bill is clearly in no mood for it if the look he shoots him is any indication.

“I was ambushed on a talk show, remembered fucking nothing, called Mike, walked into Ben, found Beverly, literally walked into Eddie, almost got killed by Bev’s ex-husband and then remembered a shit-ton of traumatic memories.” He stops to think if there’s anything he’s missed. “Think that about covers it. Anything to add?” he asks Eddie who gives an aborted shake of his head.

Bill paces the floor as Richie attempts to explain, listening and trying to process it but still ultimately stuck on the one thing. “Shit! H-how could I forget G-Georgie?” Bill is visibly choking up and Eddie feels awful.

“It’s not your fault, Bill,” he says quietly but keeps his distance, not wanting to further distress the other man.

“Yeah, it’s not your fault, man,” Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever heard Richie sound so weary. “None of us remembered a thing.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“Each of us that left Derry, everyone but Mike.”

Bill takes that in, an attempt at a steadying breath passing through his lips. He stands still for a moment, hands on his hips and Richie thinks that he’s speaking to himself before he recognises the familiar refrain of “he pounds his fists against the post.”

It’s only now that Richie realises Bill’s stutter has returned, or more accurately, remembers that he had finally got it under control after they faced Pennywise. He wonders how quickly it returned and if Bill has had it back since he left.

“We- we need to go back to Derry. We need to finish this.”

Both Richie and Eddie are surprised at Bill’s resolve, at his ability to pull himself back to decisiveness in such a short span of time. But equally worried at how quick he is to suggest they rush in.

“Appreciate the enthusiasm man but let’s try New York first. We’ve got a flight back booked for 3-"

“I can’t just leave the f-fucking signing, Richie!”

“Oh, right,” Bill has a career, one he hasn’t fucked up yet, and that’s probably wise but Richie is disappointed nevertheless.

At least, he is until Bill states, “I’ll be on a plane tonight.”

-

“That was awful. Fuck, I feel like I’ve just ruined his life,” is the first thing Eddie says once they’re outside. “How the fuck have you been able to do this three times?”

Richie feels as though ice has just been poured over him, infused into his blood and seeping into every part of him. Does Eddie really think he’s so heartless that it doesn’t affect him having to do this again and again and _again_?

“Fuck! That’s not what I meant! I mean, no one should have to do that. No one should have to ambush their friend to remind them that their brother was torn apart by a fucking clown! Fuck!”

Richie nervously glances around, reassured the no one seems to taking a particular interest in them. At least, not to a level that would suggest they had heard the part about the clown.

He places a cautious hand on Eddie’s arm and leads him away from the people milling around outside the entrance. He looks at the nearby units but everywhere is packed, being the middle of the day, and he’s conscious that the last thing they need is for anyone to overhear Eddie ranting about a killer clown. So back to the car it is.

“C’mon,” he’s not even sure Eddie has heard him but he gives a gentle tug and Eddie follows in the direction he’s leading. 

Eddie still has a glassy look to his eyes when they get back to the car, staring out of the front window but not really seeing anything. Richie can finally hear how ragged his breathing has become, now that they have a barrier between themselves and the many shoppers still filing past their car, and realises that Eddie’s having an attack of some kind.

“Hey, Eds?” He doesn’t get a response, Eddie still staring blankly ahead while repeatedly taking short, shuddering, _gasping_ breaths. He really hopes he’s not overstepping as he leans across, feeling inside of the jacket Eddie is still wearing for the pocket he knows is there and the inhaler he hopes is still inside it.

Grasping it (and fleetingly wondering why the hell Eddie still has it now that he remembers), he now focuses on getting through to him.

He places a hand on the join of Eddie’s neck and shoulder, leaning closer to try and get his attention solely on himself, “Eds, Eddie, look at me. Look at _me_.” There’s a slight widening of Eddie’s eyes and an even slighter turn of his head, but Richie knows he’s got his attention, that he’s broken through. He raises his hand higher, to Eddie’s jaw, to turn his head so he has his full attention.

“What did you say to me earlier? When I said it’d be better if we didn’t remember.”

“I said it wasn’t your fault and that we were better off remembering,” he replies, voice small and sounding as though he’s reciting the words from a book, only breaking to take another quick gulp of air.

“Right. What else?” He’s careful not to break eye contact.

Another shuddery breath, but this time a bit deeper. “Mike said one of us had to do it.”

“Exactly. And what nightmare fuel caused all of this?”

“The fucking clown,” there’s a small twitch to Eddie’s lips as he realises where Richie is going with this, realises what he’s done, and the light slightly returns to his eyes. “Fuck, you’re right.”

Richie gives him a small smile, “See? Knew there was a brain in there somewhere.”

Eddie rolls his eyes but there’s an upturn to his lips now, the haunted expression firmly pushed away for the time being. “One of us has to have one.”

Richie laughs but stops abruptly when the movement makes him realise where his hand is, namely still cradling Eddie’s face, and immediately withdraws it. “Shit! Sorry, man.”

His jolt also causes Eddie’s inhalor, which had been resting on his lap, to topple to the floor. He curses again, bending down to retrieve it, hitting his head lightly on the dashboard as he brings it back up. “Uh-“ he holds out the inhaler for Eddie to take, no longer sure if he even needs it - did he ever? - but too mortified to do anything else.

“Thanks?” It’s more of a question than a response but Eddie takes it anyway, gives it a shake and then two quick puffs. He sits for a moment, focussing on each breath. In and out. In. Out.

When he finally feels able to take a full breath again, he turns back to Richie, “What do we do now?”

“We get the hell back to the East Coast and wait for Billy Boy to make his grand entrance.”

-

The decision to drive straight to Ben’s from the airport is an easy one, both closer and allowing them more privacy for the hopefully impending reunion with Bill. It’s cemented as a good choice when they’re greeted with bags of take-out food sitting on Ben’s kitchen counters, even if the disappointment at Bill not immediately returning with them is evident on both of their hosts’ faces.

They eat the takeout Ben had ordered, reheating the dishes that had grown cold in the time it took for the drive. None of them say anything, but the constant glances to the front door, or in Richie’s case his phone, say enough.

“It’s Bill. He’ll show,” Ben finally says, resolution in his voice.

No one else shares his confidence and he really wishes Mike could be there, in person, to reassure them all that their erstwhile leader would show up.

They pass the time, Ben fixing them all drinks and Richie checking his phone for a message that never comes, the loud _tick tick tick_ seeming to grow louder with every movement of the old hand on the antique clock on Ben’s fireplace.

The silence is broken by a burst of laughter from Richie, who for some reason is holding up his phone for them all to see. “The gossip rags are speculating that Bill and I have the same dealer. TMZ’s even insinuating that it’s Eddie!”

“What the fuck?” Eddie gestures for Richie to pass him the phone, the screen on which is open on an article titled _Horror hack and Trashmouth reunite?_

“Now we’re not saying Trashmouth Tozier and horror writer Bill Denbrough shop at the same street pharmacy but they certainly have a friend in common. The unknown man, who has regularly been spotted with Tozier in recent weeks, has been present for a number of incidents linked to Tozier’s alleged struggles with addiction and appears to be a key player in Denbrough’s uncharacteristic outburst earlier today. A source close to the event told us they spotted Denbrough taking some unknown pills after the confrontation, visibly shaken.”

Eddie holds the phone away from himself, as if its very existence is offensive, before placing it down on the table and sliding it away from himself in Richie’s general direction. “How the fuck do they get away with this? Where the hell do they get this shit? We should- I should sue! Right? Christ, everyone’s going to think I’m a fucking drug dealer!”

He looks around expectantly, waiting for someone else to validate his anger, but is met with hysterical laughter from all three.

“Hey, look on the bright side, you’re a drug dealer _to the stars_ , baby!” Richie changes into an old-time Hollywood announcer voice for the last part, even doing an attempt at jazz hands to accompany it. He certainly seems to find it funny but it only makes Eddie more worked up.

“You do know your pills, Eddie” Ben adds with a straight face but cracks almost immediately.

“Fuck you,” he points at Ben and then repeats it to Richie, “fuck you too!”

It’s alright for the three of them, at the top of their fields it’d take a lot more than an unfounded allegation to have any impact but he actually needs a job at the end of this, and one in an industry where substance abuse is generally frowned upon. He can’t believe he’s thinking it, but the Rock Hudson-esque ‘bachelor’ stories were preferable to this.

He’s genuinely considering taking the car and driving home, leaving Richie to find his own way back, when the doorbell rings and the room suddenly goes eerily still.

When Ben opens the door, Bill has turned away, about to walk back to his car, when he registers the sound.

“H-hi?” Bill asks, looking around at the large property as if there’s another residence joined on that might be the one he’s actually looking for. “Sorry, I th-think I’ve got the wrong-“

Richie rushes forward, “Big Bill! Don’t mind Mr Fireman-of-the-month over here, come in!”

“Thanks?” Bill follows him in, giving a passing cautious glance to Ben, clearly still having no idea who he is.

“This, surprisingly, is Ben. You’ve met Eddie and that lovely redhead is of course Mike,” Beverly swats him on the arm before going in to greet Bill with an embrace, “hey.”

Richie makes the mistake of looking over at Ben as they hug and the resignation and longing he sees feels like a punch in the gut. He wonders how many times he’s looked at Eddie like that.

Bill pulls back from Beverly and gives Ben a quick hug too and even greets Mike when he notices movement on the laptop screen.

Eddie hangs back, his earlier anger faded but replaced once again with a gnawing guilt, unsure of what he could say that would in any way make up for what he has done to Bill.

Bill finishes greeting the others, giving Richie a belated slap on the back, when he turns to see Eddie, “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you, Eddie.”

‘ _You’re_ sorry?” Eddie asks incredulously. Of all the scenarios he’d come up with, Bill acting as though he had somehow wronged them was not one of them.

Bill forgot the most important person in the world to him and Eddie can’t imagine what that must be like, to have such a key piece of his life just _gone_. A laugh somewhere to his left reminds him that maybe he does have an idea of what Bill’s been through after all.

He’s about to apologise. For what, specifically, he’s not quite sure, but for the role he’s played in bringing back Bill’s painful memories and the way in which he had to do it, when he’s cut off.

“S-someone’s missing.” Bill suddenly says, looking at each of them in turn, searching for something - _someone_ \- that he can’t find but not quite able to put a name to who that is.

“Stan. He’s the only one left,” Richie supplies.

“Stan,” Bill sounds it out, “Stanley Uris” he repeats, the name finally linking with a face in his mind. “Where is he?”

The five others all look suddenly uncomfortable, unsure how to answer that question within the realms of what seems plausible given that Bill’s only just started to remember.

“Bev’s seen things, things that haven’t happened yet,” Mike starts cautiously.

“That _won’t_ happen,” Richie corrects.

“L-like what?” Bill asks, looking between them.

“Stanley’s terrified, Bill, he’s so scared. He doesn’t make it back to Derry if we call him,” Beverly hopes that’s enough for Bill to understand what she means. She had that dream again the previous night, Stan slightly younger, Richie making the call, but the same result regardless. It’s too fresh for her to say it aloud.

“Wait, Stan already remembers?” Bill asks, addressing it in Richie and Eddie’s direction.

Eddie begins to open his mouth to speak but stops, unsure of what to say. 

“We don’t know, dude,” Richie responds instead, hoping he’ll drop it.

“Why would he be scared to get his memories back?” Ben’s question leads Bill to raise his eyebrow slightly. Beverly is paying close attention to the conversation, having not yet been able to figure out what drives Stan to commit suicide, no matter how hard she tries to recall anything traumatic from their shared childhood or any more details from the dreams.

“The c-clown?” Bill responds, looking incredibly confused. Richie tries to catch his gaze, shaking his head in an attempt to get Bill to stop talking but it goes unnoticed.

He has a brief moment of relief when Ben asks back, “what clown?” sounding equally confused before Bev’s voice shatters the illusion.

“Pennywise.”

_Well, fuck_ , Richie thinks.


	6. Stan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers remember, Richie and Eddie go on a road trip to bring Stan back and Eddie grapples with his own mortality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken such a long time to update. Between the global pandemic, a ridiculous work schedule and dealing with PTSD myself, it's taken a while to get my inspiration back on track. Happy to report that it's not abandoned and the last two chapters are plotted out so shall hopefully be up a lot sooner than this one was.
> 
> Slight trigger warning for this chapter for suicide for Stan's introduction as this is framed within the knowledge of what would happen if he recieved the call as in canon. Nothing is attempted but it is alluded to on a number of occassions. Also a brief trigger warning for suburbia.
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated more than I can express. You can also find me [here](https://ferndaphnia.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

The realization is followed by a stretching silence that feels like it’s leading to something, only for it to dip into an anticlimax when Pennywise doesn’t materialise. There’s not even a flickering light.

“Y-you don’t seem su-surprised.” Bill states, firstly towards Richie but glimpsing over at Eddie to show it encompasses them both.

Richie reaches up to scratch the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “We, uh, we remembered last week?”

“After the hospital,” Eddie adds.

“And you didn’t think to tell us?” Bill’s voice raises, breaking slightly at the end as he rounds on Richie.

Ben steps forward, his hands up in placation, “Bill-“

“Oh yeah, cause ‘Hey, remember the alien clown that ate your brother?’ would go down a treat.” Richie fires back, ignoring Ben.

“Rich, man-” Ben now turns to Richie, and the subtle shake of his head is enough to signal that that was too far.

“Fuck, sorry Bill.” Bill silently acknowledges the apology but his expression remains pensive.

Ben gives Richie an encouraging smile before addressing the wider group, “No more half-truths. If we’re doing this we need to be honest with each other, ok?” 

There’s an air of scolded schoolchildren but they agree nevertheless. Richie studiously looks at his shoes, not meeting Ben’s eyes as he knows that’s not a promise he can, or intends to, keep.

“You need to tell us more about your dreams, Bev,” Eddie steps forward, having apparently decided the conversation is not yet over. “You said there were two people. We know Stan’s one of them, who’s the other?”

Beverley’s eyes go even wider, her surprise at being pushed on this clear, “Eddie, I don’t-“

“I’d want to know. If it was me and I was walking into something I wouldn’t walk out of.”

Beverly looks to Ben for reassurance, he walks over to sit beside her, a solid presence amidst all the uncertainty. “It’s not fixed, and we’re all older, most of the time, so it might not even happen that way.”

Richie sighs, her avoiding the question will only make Eddie more persistent and if he has to find out one of them is on borrowed time he’d rather rip that bandaid off sooner than later. “Bev-“

Bev looks at him with sorrow in her eyes and something that might be an apology and all he can think is _oh, shit, it’s me_ and his hearing dims to a distant echo. He’s more stunned than anything, not sure how you’re meant to react when you’re told you’re going to die but assuming it isn’t like this, isn’t just resignation.

“-Pennywise catches you by surprise. It’s too quick for any of us to stop him.”

He looks up, expecting to see Bev speaking to him, laying down his fate as kindly as she can, but when he does it’s Eddie she’s speaking to.

Eddie who is standing ramrod straight, fists clenched and visibly trying to not let his emotion show. Eddie who’s skin has turned palid, as though he’s seeing his own ghost. He presses his lips into a thin line, mutters, “I need a moment,” and turns and walks out Ben’s front door.

-

It doesn’t take Richie much to find him, opening the main door to find him sitting on the steps leading to Ben’s house, head tipped forward between his knees. He sits down quietly beside him.

They stay silent for a few moments, Richie listening to the wind rustling the trees lining the road, accompanied by Eddie’s measured breathing from beside him. It’s peaceful, peaceful in a way that finding out your world might end should not be.

“This is bullshit,” eventually sounds from the tangled body next to him. Eddie raises his head but doesn’t look at him, “This is fucking bullshit.”

“Just say the word and we’re done. I can have us on a flight to LA in the morning, Derry can kiss my ass.”

“You know we can’t do that, Rich.” Richie _knows_ , it just doesn’t make him want to do it any less.

“It’s just-,” Eddie stops, looks to the sky to compose himself and then starts over, “My whole life since Derry has been a fucking lie. These last few months are the first time I’ve felt like myself since we were kids, how fucked up is that? And I know that if I hadn’t met you again I’d still be stuck in the same shit routine, in a job I hate and living in some Groundhog Day bullshit cycle of my childhood.”

“I thought I was finally getting some control over my life, that I could get a second chance, you know? That after this fucking nightmare was over I could be happy. I thought we-“ his breath hitches and he doesn’t finish the sentence. Richie wastes no time in pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Hey, if Pennywise wants to get to you he’ll have to go through me, ok?”

There a huff of hot breath against his collar followed by a chill as Eddie pulls back. “Is that meant to make me feel better?” It’s lacking his usual edge, interrupted by sniffling and delivered with red-rimmed eyes, but Richie will take it. 

“I mean it, you know? We can go save Stan and then blow that hellhole. We don’t owe that place shit.”

He wishes Eddie would say yes. He wishes Eddie was as much of a coward as him and, most of all, he wishes that his instinct to run would event make a different. But he knows it won’t and that Eddie isn’t. 

He pulls back and, after checking the resolution on Eddie’s face hadn’t wavered, gives his arm a gentle squeeze before leaning back and standing up. “Right. Operation Stan-the-man, you in?”

He reaches down a hand which Eddie takes to pull himself up. And if he holds on for a few seconds longer than necessary, well, that’s just offering comfort to a friend in need.

They go back in to three gazes full of pity. Richie doesn’t need to turn to see Mike to know that there’s a fourth.

Ben takes a step forward, seems to reconsider it and then stays at his original spot. “Are you ok?”

“He’s just been told he’s going to fucking die! Of course he’s not ok!” Richie replies incredulously but he feels Eddie’s back straighten under his hand and remembers it’s not his answer to give.

“I’m fine,” Eddie says, in a way that’s clear there are to be no follow up questions. Richie feels him lean back into his touch. “What do we need to know?”

-

They set off early hoping to cut the estimated thirteen hours down enough to arrive by early evening. It’s a long drive but a car seems like an easier vehicle for kidnapping than a plane.

“What do you think Stan’s like?” Eddie asks as they cross the 9th - or was it 10th? - bridge of the journey.

Richie thinks about it, genuinely thinks about it, and the only conclusion he can reach is that he will still be, well, _Stan_. Stanley who was always wise beyond his years, already braver and more knowledgeable than any adult in their little town in nowhere, Maine. He can’t picture him as anyone other than the boy he’s had flashes of, although he knows time has moved on for them all.

“He must be retired by now, right? Rocking back and forth of his porch, sipping iced tea in the shade surrounded by dozens of grandchildren as he regales them with tales of the good ole days in Derry.” He slips into what Eddie places as an attempt at a southern grandma, a new voice, or at least one that’s new to him. Eddie’s lips quirk upwards but the smile is soon suppressed and Richie frowns, hands tightening on the wheel.

“He’ll be...Stan. Solid, wise-as-fuck, takes-non-of-my-bullshit Stan.” He lets his gaze flirt across to his passenger, “we’ll do it, Eds. Whatever goes wrong, we’ll fix it and it’ll be just like it always should’ve been, the Losers Club together again.”

That does get a slight smile and eventually, after an almost awkward pause, a resolute “yeah.”

Richie counts that as a win.

-

His first thought is that the gated community they’ve pulled into is an invention by the clown, that somehow It has escaped Derry and picked up community planning as a hobby to pass the time.

Every lawn is perfectly trimmed, flower beds neatly planted and he swears he’s already seen his fair share of picket fences. The few people they see out, meandering around the grid system are so well put together that he suspects they may have been mass produced to fit in with the rest of this fine-tuned perfection. 

They pull up outside of one of the many cookie-cutter homes, the bird house on the front lawn the only hint that they’ve reached the right address.

“Of course Stan lives in the fucking Truman Show,” he says to Eddie before taking a deep breath and opening his door. He gets out of the car carefully, half expecting sirens to blare or the false sky to fall in if he so much as missteps onto the grass. But there’s no hidden laser system for his feet to trip up on and the sky stays stubbornly in place.

Eddie shakes his head but looks equally uncomfortable, quickly skirting around the car to keep close, as if moving together will make it less obvious that neither of them belong in this overly-manicured suburbia. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he says in a hushed tone, as if anything louder will only draw more attention to the disruption their arrival is about to cause. He jogs up the short path to the door, making as little sound as possible, and rings the doorbell. The faint sound of footsteps soon follows.

“Hi, is Stan here?” Richie asks before the door is even fully open.

“Stanley, there’s a...,” the woman glances back at Richie and Eddie as she shouts into an unseen area of the house, brow furrowed as if she’s concentrating hard before continuing, “comedian here to see you.”

“I’m sorry, I know I recognise you but I can’t for the life of me remember your name?” Patty looks relieved at the thought that Stanley might have an idea about what is going on.

“Richie. Richie Tozier,” he clarifies as Eddie’s muttering beside him about sheer sense of entitlement, expecting people to know who the fuck he is.

“And I’m Eddie Kaspbrak. We grew up with Stan.”

“Oh! I’m Patty, Stan’s wife” Patty gives them a polite smile, “just a moment.” She leaves the door half ajar as she retreats inside. They faintly hear her calling Stan’s name again.

Richie rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, a manifestation of his nervous energy which unfortunately only makes the knots in Eddie’s stomach tighten. He resists the urge to reach across and physically hold him still.

They don’t have to wait long before the door is pulled open once more, this time replaced by two people. The reading glasses are new, he notes, but the mop of curls, albeit darker than they used to be, are instantly recognisable. As is the curt “Yes?” given in greeting.

He panics. He sees the numerous eventualities laid out before them but mostly the one they’re trying to, _will_ avoid, and stumbles on what to say, what to _do_ , to ensure they’re on the right path.

“Stan the man! Stanley Urine!” Richie apparently doesn’t have the same issue. Eddie winces and waits for the door to be shut on them. He’s beginning to plan a way to get them a second chance, ideally one where Richie doesn’t speak, when he notices the corners of Stan’s mouth uptick, lips quirking slightly into a smile, when suddenly the corners drop again.

Eddie wishes he was less familiar with the expression that replaces it.

“Richie. Eddie. What-How could I forget?”

-

Stan invites them both inside. 

Stepping foot inside the house, it immediately hits him that _Stan’s an adult_ , a bizarre thought for a 35-year-old but one that Eddie thinks with amazement nevertheless. It shouldn’t be a surprise though, Stan always has his shit together even as a kid and the picturesque house suggests nothing has changed.

“You two kept in touch all these years?” Stan asks conversationally as they’re led into a spacious sunroom.

“No,” they both reply simultaneously and Stan raises his eyebrows imperceptibly.

Eddie’s sighs, “It’s a long story.”

“Which thankfully is on YouTube!” Richie adds as he flops down onto the couch he sees, not waiting for an invitation. He holds out a hand towards Eddie and makes a grabbing motion, “Eddie, give me your phone.”

“What? Use your own!”

“I didn’t charge it before leaving!”

“Can you at least pretend to be an adult for even five minutes?” Eddie’s voice rises but he hands over his phone regardless, unlocking it quickly before doing so.

“How long have you two been together?” Patty asks kindly, an attempt to fill the silence while Richie is searching on the phone. It’s brief, but Eddie spots his hand freeze in its search.

Stan doesn’t bother to pause or even look away from the phone but the familiar disdain is back in his voice, “they’re not.”

“Oh,” It’s followed by an awkward silence that none of them quite know how to break until Richie finally finds the video and passes the phone across to their hosts.

They let the video do most of the talking initially, Richie subsequently giving the cliff notes version of tracking down the others. He skirts around the stranger aspects of their collective memory loss but not enough to avoid any questions from Patty.

“Have you considered contacting the local health authorities? It could be something in the water or local pollution?” She asks kindly.

Eddie stumbles over how to reply to that, how to convey the futility of asking anyone in Derry for help. Stan beats him to, “I don’t think it would help. Derry’s not…it’s not like other towns.”

Patty doesn’t pry but Eddie can see her grip on Stan’s hand tighten before she stands up and offers to get them all a drink. Eddie suspects she doesn’t mean coffee.

“Are you staying locally?” Stan asks

“We’re not staying. We have to start the drive back tonight.” He stops, knowing there’s no way to say what comes next that doesn’t sound crazy. “I’m sorry but you need to come with us, Stan.”

Patty returns in time to hear that, bottle in one hand and some glasses in the other. She seems mostly confused, perhaps even a little amused that these two strangers have come from New York and are asking her husband to leave immediately. Stan looks terrified, “I can’t just drop everything, Eddie. It’s good to see you but I’d need more notice-“

“Bill’s in hospital!” Richie suddenly exclaims without any forewarning. Eddie catches his eye from his place beside Patty and mouths _what the fuck are you doing_ across to him.

“Bill?” Stan runs a hand through his hair, chasing the whiff of familiarity that the name brings with it. Patty shuffles across to him, placing a reassuring hand on his back upon seeing the recognition on her husband’s face. Richie uses their distraction to throw a shrug back to Eddie.

“Bill Denbrough?” Stan eventually asks, recalling the name from the video.

“The author?” Patty questions, causing Stan to get up and walk across to their well-stocked bookcase. Sure enough, Eddie recognises a few of the spines from his own copies which were abandoned with Myra.

Stan eases one out, cracking open the pristine front cover to look at the author’s bio and photo, “Huh.” He closes it again and gently returns it to its place.

“It’s funny,” he says as he rejoins the rest of them, squeezing Patty’s knee in a gesture of reassurance as he does, “we must have every book Bill’s written but I don’t think I’ve ever opened even one of them.”

“Yeah, I, uh- I used to watch Richie’s stand-up specials and had no clue who he was.” Before Richie can even open his mouth, he turns to him and adds, “Don’t. Say. A. Fucking. Thing.”

Richie mimes locking his lips but the shit-eating grin says enough.

“I’ll help you pack,” Eddie’s keen to move this along, hoping Richie’s lie lasts long enough to get Stan to leave with them without questioning it any further. It works, Stan reluctantly getting up.

Eddie rises with him, following him through to another room that’s as warm and welcoming as the ones he'd already seen. The whole house is inviting, lived in but full of tangible memories and love. A true home in a way that none of the other losers seemed to have. He feels all the more guilty for dragging him away from it.

Stan pulls a case out of a pristine cupboard before crossing to an equally well-organised wardrobe and beginning to wordlessly pass clothes across to Eddie, who silently helps fold his clothes and places them into the open case. 

They continue this way until Stan steps into the en-suite bathroom. Eddie can hear the sound of cabinets opening and closing before Stan reappears in the doorway, washbag in hand. 

“Is...is _It_ back?”

Eddie stops, his hands still on the pants he was folding. This could go one of two ways, either deny it or admit it all, and he’s not sure either will help.

He doesn’t let himself overthink it and gives him a short, “not yet,” in response.

“Then why now? I have a life, Eddie! Patty and I have plans, we have a future together! And my job, what the hell am I meant to tell them?”

Stan is panicking and Eddie is so, so grateful that they came to do this in person. It’s all too easy to see how this could have played out otherwise. 

He stands up and walks over to Stan, “hey, man, let’s sit down,” and leads him back to sit beside him on the bed. Stan still has a stack of socks in his hands but Eddie carefully sets them down behind him so they don’t roll off the bed.

“I know this fucking sucks, ok? But we think we have a chance to catch It off-guard. We’re not meant to be there yet, right, so we go back and finish this while It’s hibernating or whatever the fuck it does and things don’t have to play out the way they’re meant to.”

Stan, always too perceptive, responds, “the way they’re meant to?”

Eddie’s not sure how to explain Bev’s dreams, not even sure he understands it himself, but he had hoped to go for something more eloquent than, “Bev sees things. In her dreams.”

“Bev sees things in her dreams,” Stan repeats, and, after thinking about it for a moment and apparently accepting that it makes sense, he stands up and goes back to the drawers, pulling out the one below his sock drawer and passing more across to Eddie.

“That have anything to do with why you and Richie are insisting that I leave with you today?”

“Yeah,” he folds the pyjama pants “Sorry, man”

Stan stays still for a few moments before Eddie can see the shift in his resolve as he wordlessly returns to packing.

He silently helps Stan fold his clothes and place them into an open case. If he accidentally misplaces the wash-bag Stan hands him, and more importantly the razor within, well, that’s something that will be waiting for Stan when he returns home.

-

Eddie lets Stan wheel the case out in front of him, not leaving him a chance to spot the wash-bag which he’s kicked under the bed.

They come out to find Richie showing Patty something on his phone, and as they get closer it becomes clear it’s the other photos of them as kids that Mike had sent over. “Can you send us copies?” Patty begins to ask but the conversation is dropped when they see Stan walk back out.

“Can you give us a minute?”

Richie and Eddie look at each other, unsure of how to respond.

“Just let me explain to my wife why I’m going to New York with no notice. Please.”

Eddie weighs up the pros and cons. He doesn’t think a few minutes will be enough time for Stan to do anything, certainly not with Patty present. And while Patty doesn’t seem like the kind of person to call the cops to report Stanley missing or, worse, kidnapped (his worst case scenario is always what Myra would do), it does seem like a good idea to give her some form of explanation.

“Five minutes,” Eddie responds, setting the timer on his watch to start immediately before he and Richie hesitantly go back to the car to wait inside.

Richie somehow takes up even more space in the vehicle when he’s nervous, fingers drumming against the top of the glove compartment and knee spreading towards the gear stick. Eddie spares him a quick glance but tries to keep his focus between the front door and his watch.

“Everything’s fine, he’s fine,” he mutters to himself. _4:12. 4:11. 4:10._

“I’ll uh- I’ll take care of everything at the hotel. Get rid of the razors and everything.” Eddie’s not sure whether Richie is talking to him or to himself but he responds regardless.

“I left his washbag under the bed. I don’t think he noticed.”

“Good…good.” 

The drumming gets more intense but less rhythmic. Eddie listens for a while before remembering the other thing he had to tell him. “Stan remembers. Already.”

Richie furrows his brow, “That’s…”

“Yup.”

The sound of the trunk opening stops the conversation going any further. Eddie glances back to his watch, there’s still a minute to spare.

-

“I feel like I’m being driven to my execution,”

“Well fuck us, I guess. It’s great to see you too, Stanley,” Richie replies.

Stan rolls his eyes but continues, “It’s never made sense, but I’ve always been afraid of something that I couldn’t place. Patty makes it better but I’ve always known that something was coming, you know? I knew I had agreed to something and that time was running out.”

It ebbs and flows, but the ever-present sense of dread is one Eddie’s very familiar with. It’s been worse for the past day and he can distinctly remember feeling the exact same as he stood outside of the house on Niebolt Street when he was thirteen. The morbid thought that he and Stan are, possible, literally being driven to their execution doesn’t help.

“You might have PTSD,” Eddie directs this to Stan. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to get, Myra had a friend whose cousin developed it after living through a 3.1 quake over in New Hampshire, she lost her medicine and the pharmacy was too badly damaged to fulfil her prescription and as I’m saying this I am realising this is entirely bullshit.”

“Eddie was dating his mom,” Richie explains to Stan, which Eddie refuses to rise to.

There’s a familiar set of emotions flooding through him: shame, embarrassment, anger, as he realises he’d been lied to again. The comparison is apt, although he has no intention of admitting so, struggling to even do so to himself, and he feels foolish for ending up in the same situation again. 

He knows this feeling, has lived through it before. Can pinpoint the exact day he felt it for the first time, over twenty years later. Remembers storming out of the house despite his mother’s protests to join his friends in what felt like the biggest fight of their lives. He can’t believe he’s been so fucking stupid.

“Still sounds like PTSD,” he concludes, and pushes back how well his own experiences line up with that diagnosis into a neat file in the back of his mind, in the rapidly overflowing stack of things he’ll need to address if he’s still alive to do so. Which, coincidentally, is one of the many other things crammed away and marked “do not dwell on”.

His fight or flight instinct is in overdrive and he squeezes the hand not on the wheel between his knees as if to stop himself from reaching for the door handle.

“Hey, we should see if they’ll do some kind of friends and family deal - 7 crackpots for the price of four!”

Richie’s voice helps bring him back to the present, but not enough to filter his response, “Doesn’t work that way, genius, and I don’t really want to be institutionalised when one of us has to mention the killer clown.”

Richie just shrugs as if to say _worth a shot_.

“Bill’s fine, he’s not actually in hospital?” Stan asks when no other conversation is forthcoming.

“Big Bill’s great! Probably missing his super famous wife but doing swell otherwise.”

“Speaking of Bill, did you let the others know we’re on our way back?” Eddie asks.

“Stan, what’s your number?” Richie asks instead of answering, leading Eddie to mutter “so that’s a no” under his breath.

“Why do you need it? I’m in the car with you.”

Richie waves his phone at him as if that’s an answer. “Going to reintroduce you to the gang!”

“We have a group chat,” Eddie adds as an actual clarification so Stan reluctantly reads his number out to Richie.

And just like that, a notification appears on his screen telling him that he’s been added to ‘The Losers Club’ group chat, followed by a message notification reading _The eagle has landed_. A few seconds later it’s followed by _Stan is the eagle_.

He spots Richie raising his phone up beside him too late and the next notification is a photo of his own, unimpressed face.

He thanks God that Richie didn’t have access to a cell when they were kids.

-

They drive far enough that Stan can’t justify returning home, finding a Holiday Inn to stop at for the night. Richie resolutely does not make eye contact with the man at check-in as he books one room for all three of them.

“Can’t wait for that story to be sold to TMZ,” Richie quips on the elevator up.

Richie enters the room first and immediately heads for the bathroom, emerging moments later with plastic packets peaking out from his pockets. He walks to the door, before reconsidering the minibar and heading back to collect the glasses and glass bottles sitting on the counter above it, somehow balancing them all as he returns to the door, awkwardly nudging it open between his elbow and hip. “I’ll be back!” he calls back into the room, and Eddie notes that it must be bad when he didn’t even attempt the obvious impression with that.

“What’s going on, Eddie?” Stan asks, drawing back his attention to the room and its other current occupant.

“Richie is…” He struggles to find the words, not wanting to voice the _what if_ of Stan’s suicide, as if saying out loud might make it real somehow. “He’s trying to protect you. In his own way.”

Stan sticks his head into the bathroom to see what Richie had removed, the tray for complimentary toiletries noticeably devoid of anything other than shower caps and q-tips. “Should I be expecting him to start baby-proofing the room when he gets back? Lots of sharp corners I could hit myself on,” Stan says dryly.

“Fuck, don’t even joke about it. We passed a Target about 5 miles back, he’ll definitely do it.”

He notices Stan’s eyes flick towards the direction of the window and he really hopes that they have the industry standard suicide prevention locks on them so that they can’t be opened. He should’ve checked. He’s considering texting Richie to ask him to check when Stan wheels his case to the bottom of the bed at the far side of the room. Below the window. Eddie breathes a sigh of relief, _he’s just getting settled_.

“Why am I here, Eddie?”

“We weren’t meant to remember yet. Mike’s been waiting, watching for any sign it’s back but it’s too early. There’s a 27 year cycle.”

He sees Stan work it out in his head, _5 years early_.

“Mike thinks It’s hibernating, or whatever the alien space clown version of that is. If we go back early, we think we can get to It before it wakes up and starts killing again. Catch It off guard, you know? So all seven of us can make it home.”

“And if Mike’s wrong? I don’t want to die, Eddie.”

He freezes, unable to answer. Mike being wrong isn’t a possibility he’s allowing himself to consider. Mike being wrong means losing so much more than just his own life and he’s not willing to consider that the vague semblance of control he’s holding onto is all for nothing.

 _1, 2, 3, in. 1, 2, 3, out._ He repeats this process at least three times before he feels anywhere near able to reply to Stan, knowing that he has to maintain a collected front if they are to have any hope at keeping Stan with them. Richie can hide all the sharp objects that he can find but Stan’s still a free man and kidnapping or imprisonment charges would do nothing to help get this over with.

“Neither of us are - fuck, were - meant to make it. I don’t want to die either Stan. I really, really don’t. My life before all this fucking sucked. Richie was right, I was dating the living, breathing reincarnation of my mother and believed everything stupid fucking thing she told me. Again.” He takes a deep, gulping breath of air. _1, 2, 3, in. 1, 2, 3, out. Fuck, why isn’t it working?_

He lowers his head between his knees, hoping that the instructions from his brief internet search on panic attacks proves to be in anyway useful, and attempts to return to counting. His mind briefly notes that it’s hysterical that he knows perfectly how to deal with the asthma he doesn’t have, but feels so ill at ease dealing with the anxiety he’s been battling for decades. _Because you’ve been lied to_ his mind supplies, but he still feels stupid.

“You’re here- fuck!” _In, 2, 3. Out, 2, 3. Focus_. “We’re here because it’s the only way either of us have a chance to change things.” He hopes that’s enough of an explanation, he doesn’t chance looking back up as he focusses on drawing air into his lungs but he hears the chair next to the writing desk being pulled out and a person, presumably Stan, sitting down.

They sit like that, Eddie’s counting not reaching any measurable amount of time, when the room door finally clicks open.

“We’ll have room service in ten and turns out that the kid on reception is a fan so we have free movies for the night!” Richie announces as he turns around to latch the room door and double check the lock is turned. It’s only then, as he turns around and takes in the room that he realises anything is amiss. His eyes flick back and forth between the two, Eddie still visibly panicked, “So what’d I miss?”

-

The room service is passable. It’s nothing to write home about but serves the purpose of a meal when there’s nowhere else to go to.

Stan’s quick to go to bed and Eddie realises with surprise that it’s fast approaching midnight. His offer to take the couch is refused - Richie seems committed to acting as guard duty by sleeping closest to the door and Eddie doesn’t have the strength to fight him on it - so he does his best to fall asleep in the unfamiliar bed with the sword of Damocles hanging over him.

He’s lost track of time when he reaches the point of giving up on trying. The little sleep he has got has been fitful and he’s conscious enough that he knows he doesn’t want to fall back into the dream he just escaped. He turns over to feel for his phone on the bedside table, unsure yet whether he’s going to see if any of the other Losers are awake or something else, when he notices the light from the television and Richie sitting upright before it.

He knows for a fact that Richie can sleep sitting up, having woken up on numerous mornings to find him passed out on the couch with whatever rerun he’d been watching long since over, but decides to investigate anyway. If nothing else, he can switch the subtitles on to provide a distraction from his own thinking without waking the others.

He shuffles his legs over the side of the bed, feeling about for the slippers he brought with him (there’s not a chance in hell that his feet are going anywhere near that hotel carpet) and instantly regrets leaving the warmth.

He mutters a quick expletive to himself before quickly checking he hasn’t woken Stan up. He contemplates taking his duvet with him but quickly rules the idea out for the noise it would cause. Turning to check on Richie, he finds him watching him with amusement, clearly awake.

“Remind me again why we have the aircon on blast?” Eddie asks as he does his best to move across the room without making a sound.

“Something about sleeping in a hot room affecting our memory? I don’t know, dude, I tuned most of it out.”

“Well fuck whoever said that.”

Richie smiles, but doesn’t follow-through with the obvious joke. Again. He moves across instead and lifts up the corner of the duvet he’s been sitting under to give Eddie space to join him.

“You good?” Richie asks once Eddie’s settled in, toeing the edge of the duvet so that it’s over his own feet. “Looked like you were going through some stuff earlier.”

Eddie sighs, half heartedly attempting to pull the cover back. “You were right,” he admits. “I got away from her just to end up in the exact same situation. It’s like every additional thing we remember is just another layer of shit.”

“Not everything.”

“Not everything,” Eddie amends, “you were the best friends I ever had. No one even comes close, man. And while there’s large chunks I’d be happy to never think about again, there’s lots of stuff I’m glad to have back. Swimming in the quarry, the clubhouse, sneaking into the Aladdin to see Nightmare 5... “

“That movie sucked.”

“Yeah, yeah it did.” 

“I just keep thinking of all the things that I’ve missed out on, how different things could’ve been if I’d remembered.” Richie mumbles an agreement.

“It’s 2am, can you please go to sleep?” Comes Stan’s muffled voice from the far end of the room.

His first instinct is to laugh. It’s not the first time they’ve been in this situation but it is the first in a long time, the others telling him and Richie to shut up in the early hours of the morning at sleepovers a common occurrence. But they’re not kids anymore and he knows it’s likely been an awful day for Stan, he’s not ranking it amongst his own favorites. So he mumbles an apology and tries to pay attention to whatever Richie’s found to watch.

It’s one of the old Universal monster movies, _The Creature from the Black Lagoon_ he thinks although he doesn’t remember ever seeing it before.

He’s not quite sure what’s going on or how much he’s missed but he quickly finds himself engrossed, following the passengers of the _Rita_ as they search for the creature. He’s almost dozing off when he catches sight of the creature stumbling towards Kay on the screen, arms outstretched, and he suddenly feels more awake than he has all night.

“The Leper.” Eddie says apropos of nothing into the darkness of the room and it takes Richie’s brain a moment to catch-up, to remember what those words mean in the context of their lives now. 

“Huh?”

“I just remembered the fucking Leper.” Eddie takes a deep breath and holds it, releasing it shakily then repeating. 

“Oh! Fuck, man.” He gives him a few moments to go through the motions of his breathing exercises, waiting until he seems to look less like he’s hyperventilating. “Did something...?” He means to ask what triggered that memory, but feels like enough of an asshole that he stops himself, remembering the ridicule he treated triggers with on stage less than a months ago. Another notch on the ‘Richie-is-a-fraud’ post, enough of the wood scratched out that the post will soon snap.

“The movie. Something about the way that thing moved. It’s not the same but…”

There’s a stretch of silence as Eddie connects more of the dots. The woman in the painting. Georgie. Alvin Marsh (that one is even worse to remember as an adult, the full connotations apparent in a way they never were to a sheltered kid in the 80s). He comes up short. “What did It appear as for you? I don’t remember you ever telling us.”

That wasn’t what Richie was expecting, “I think It was still workshopping characters for me.”

“Let me guess, nothing that scared you that it could use?”

“Nah, I gave it too much material to work with. I was a fucking mess of a kid, dude.” Richie snorts out a laugh but it’s humorless. 

There’s another crumpling of covers moving from the far end of the room and he realises too late that their voices have crept up in volume.

“And now?” He whispers. At Richie’s questioning raise of one eyebrow, he clarifies, “what would it appear as now?”

“Well I’ve got a questionable history of substance abuse it can build on,” he quips but when Eddie doesn’t laugh and he doesn’t know how else to dodge the question, he responds “guess we’ll find out.”

Eddie hums in agreement and burrows further under the duvet as if ensuring none of his limbs are sticking out will prevent the monster under the bed, well, couch, from reaching him.

“You think you’ll see the Leper?” Richie asks, shuffling slightly towards the centre of the couch so as to allow the duvet to have more give.

“Subtlety was never It’s strong suit. Of course I’ll see the fucking Leper.”

-

The apartment’s lights instantly flood the space and Stan takes a moment for the light-stained blotches to disappear from his vision. The migraine he’s been nursing since that morning, however, doesn’t fade, and he resolves to get a good night’s sleep no matter what. 

The journey had felt like ages, listening to the two of them bicker, snapping back and forth at one another as if they were still thirteen, but he hadn’t realised just how long he’d been sitting in the dark. On retrospect, he wishes he still was. He reaches up to massage his temple but gets no relief.

“Welcome to casa Tozier-Kaspbrak!” Richie announces, flinging his arms out as he does. His bag, still clasped in his hand, just narrowly misses Eddie on the backwards swing. 

“Watch it, asshole! And why the fuck is your name first?” Eddie shuffles around him, turning back to Stan as he does, “Come in. Couch is over there, you want a drink?”

Stan approaches the couch but then notes the armchair at its other end, back against the wall with a good view of the door. He opts for that one. “Just a water,” He gazes around the bare walls and empty shelfs before he catches himself, “uh…thanks.”

Eddie brings it across to him, explaining that they’d only moved a few weeks ago after noticing Stan looking at the sparseness of the apartment. There’s another water placed on a coaster next to him and a third, a coke, placed on another, one with some kind of cartoon logo contrasting the clean metal of the other two, further down the table. Richie plonks himself down on the space beside it.

As Eddie turns back in the direction of his drink, his eyes catch the bag and jacket abandoned in the entranceway. “I’ll just put those away then, shall I?” he mutters to himself as he goes to pick up Richie’s stuff, leaning into the alcove next to the door to retrieve his own bag too before trepsing through to their room. Stan can hear a door open, and a clattering of what he can only assume are coat hangers, wincing as every loud noise pulses in his head, before it’s interrupted by the most obnoxious ringtone Stan’s ever had the displeasure of hearing. 

“Eddie, can you get that?” Richie calls through to him.

“I’m not your fucking secretary!” Eddie shouts back, but it’s quickly followed by, “Hello, Richie Tozier’s phone, Edward Kaspbrak speaking,” as Richie saunters in after him.

Stanley pulls out his own phone and, after a quick text to Patty to let her know they’d got to their destination of New York (what he really, truly hopes is the _only_ destination), he pulls up the group chat he was added to, copies Ben’s contact details and fires off a quick text to ask for his address before calling an Uber to pick him up a few blocks away. Even waiting in the noisy streets of the city feels like a welcome reprieve.

He scribbles a quick note on the corner of an envelope that’s been left lying, retrieves his bag and slips out of the door.

-

“If I have to stay with them another night I’m going to kill myself,” Stan says the moment the door is opened and in return is greeted with silence from Ben and a slight gasp from Beverly.

Stan stays where he is, staring at them both as if they have gone insane and grips onto his bag a bit tighter, suddenly wondering why he came here of all places instead of retreating back to Atlanta at his first opportunity. He thinks if he had had a chance to yesterday he would have, would have hailed the first cab he could back to JFK and paid an extortionate amount to get the first flight out of there.

But as more of his memories return so does what feels like an intrinsic sense of loyalty to this group of people that he barely remembered the day before. As much as he has wanted some peace and quiet away from Richie and Eddie, he knows without question that he loves them, loves all of them, and for that reason he’s staying.

He realises belatedly how bad his choice of words were, pressing his wrists against the soft fibre of his cardigan where the sleeves have ridden up, self-conscious of wounds that never came to pass.

He knows, without having to be told, how he would’ve done it. The idea was there, almost as soon as he recognised Richie and Eddie, recognised why they were there. It lingers, but the intention has passed, nullified by the memories of the friends he’d forgotten.

Ben shakes off the _what if_ that’s hanging over them and offer’s a warm “hi,” and an even warmer hug before welcoming him in and reintroducing him to Beverly.

The phone rings no more than two minutes after he arrives, aborting whatever plan Ben was beginning to form in his head to deal with their newest arrival. 

“Hi Richie,” Ben answers and the responding “Benjamin!” is loud enough that Stan and Beverly can hear it from a few feet away.

“Just tell them he’s fucking missing, asshole!” Ben can hear Eddie clearly in the background, and the sounds of a scuffle that follow only slightly less so.

Richie appears to regain control of the phone enough to contribute, “Uhhh...how much of that did you hear?”

Ben exhales, already missing the serenity of the undisturbed day he and Bev had spent in the house. Had it really only been three hours ago that he’s been setting the table, Bev’s laughter ringing through the room as she poured them each a glass of wine? “Stan’s with us.”

“Oh, thank fuck!” 

The voices after that are quieter, enough so that Stan can no longer eavesdrop. Beverly looks equally disappointed. “I left them a note to say where I’d gone,” Stan clarifies but gets no response other than a gentle pat on his knee as if to say of course you did.

Ben hangs up and looks over at them, but really he’s only looking at Beverly. He’s only ever looking at Beverly. Stan thinks, briefly, that maybe this is part of It’s curse, each of them perpetually stuck as their thirteen year old selves with no hope of progressing.

But then Beverly looks up, meeting Ben’s gaze with the brightest smile Stan thinks he has ever seen from her, and he thinks that maybe there is hope after all.


End file.
